


Burn You

by ShezzasCompanion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, BAMF Mycroft, Fingering, Forced Orgasm, Fuck Or Die, Guilt, Guilty John, M/M, Moriarty Made Them Do It, Protective Mycroft, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sherlock Whump, Stalking, Virgin Sherlock, no forgiveness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 08:47:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 28,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3685869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShezzasCompanion/pseuds/ShezzasCompanion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being captured by Moriarty, Sherlock gives the only thing he has to keep John alive, however the consequences of his actions are more severe than he ever could have thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angstlover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angstlover/gifts).



> Graphic depictions of Rape in this Chapter

John's heart was pounding in his chest as Moriarty squeezed his shoulder grinning wickedly at him. The proposition he had just been handed made him sick, and he hoped he head heard the criminal that had taken them captive wrong, but as he repeated himself, it was obvious he wasn't. "Now Johnny Boy, you want your dear Sherlock to be safe don't you?" John nodded of course he did, sherlock was his best friend, the man that had saved him. "Good, Just like I knew you would. Now, like the good boy you are, you are going to walk through that door and show Sherlock what he's been missing." John swallowed.

"You want me to rape him...." the words came across his lips in a whisper as he was slowly pushed towards the door, Moriarty pushing it open, revealing Sherlock tied to a bed, his wrists bound by rope as he laid face down on the rather thin looking mattress. He had been struggling, trying to escape, that much was obvious from the red burn marks around his wrists.

“I wouldn’t put it that way, you are more likely giving him an experience to remember.” The criminal voiced, loud enough for John to hear but not loud enough for Sherlock to pick up on the conversation

The man on the bed  turned his head slightly, enough to see them, and Sherlock began to struggle once more trying to escape, causing Moriarty to laugh.

"Do keep struggling Sherlock, it's not going to help." Moriarty commented and the detective stopped pulling on his binds, his wrists redder than before. The criminal smirked as he walked around slightly.

"Are you going to kill me?" Sherlock asked

"Oh, no, not at all." Moriarty commented. "I am not going to do anything to you, but your pet is."

John's blood ran cold and he shifted slightly as he looked down, sherlock stilling, listening to what was being said.

"John is going to take the only thing you have to give." There was an evil grin on his face as Moriarty rocked on the balls on his feet. It took a moment before the meaning clicked in Sherlock's head, and he resumed to pull on the ropes in an attempt to free himself. John couldn't blame his friends Struggle, this was a horrible way for someone to lose their virginity.

"If you don't comply, I'll have someone put a bullet in his head. John watched as Sherlock stopped once more, his body tensing at the fact he was trading something he had yet to give to anyone for his friends life.

"Virginity is a construct of society." Sherlock replied and Moriarty grinned as he looked at John.

"The sooner you get started John, the sooner I'll let the two of you leave." John stared at Sherlock's back, cursing to himself. In hindsight, it was best if they had just stayed home.

Sherlock had been bored, he had been searching for a case, he had been willing to take anything that was given to him, so needless to say as the email came in saying there had been a theft of an expensive painting from a locked vault, Sherlock jumped at it. Half an hour after the email came in they were sitting in the back of a cab, heading to the address that had been given.

It wasn't until they had exited the cab and approached the building did something feel off and John had told sherlock that it would have been best just to head back to baker street. They entered the building, finding it empty, but before they could turn around an exit, someone had hit them on the back of the head. Now they were stuck in this predicament.  John looked towards moriarty before making his way to the bed.

"If I were you, I wouldn't consider doing any funny business, I'll be watching." John swallowed at the words, but said nothing, instead he stood there, looking down at his friend as the criminal slowly backed out the door.

"It's fine John." Sherlock muttered as he turned to look at John. "It's just transport, virginity is a just a social construct, it doesn't mean anything."  

John didn't believe a word sherlock said as he shifted his weight slightly before slowly climbing up on the bed. This was the last thing he wanted to do, even for his own life, but there was always the premises that if John didn't fulfill his part of this, the criminal would would just send someone else, someone who wouldn't be kind or considerate to the fact sherlock had never engaged in any type of intercourse before.

"It's fine John." Sherlock breathed, his voice shaking slightly, but John accounted that to the position he was in. "Just transport."

The doctor's shaking hands grasped Sherlock's hips gently slowly bringing them up, making the taller man shuffle onto his knees. Bringing his body a sort of doggy style position.  John,s heart was pounding as he began to feel slightly sick. He could feel sherlock tense as he reached around to undo the detective's trousers. It wasn't like he hadn't thought about being intimate with Sherlock, though this was the last way he wanted to do it. He wanted to take Sherlock properly, prepare him like he should, not be limited to a poor excuse for a bed and the two foil packets of lube Moriarty had handed him before telling him what he expected.

Gingerly he slid the material  over Sherlock's hips and buttocks, watching it pulling around his knees, John pushed the silk shirt up to Sherlock' mid back, revealing the tight fitting boxers the brunette was wearing.

Sherlock was attempting to keep his heart from beating it's way through his ribs as he felt his legs and back exposed to the cold air of the room. John's hand slowly rubbing his sides, reassuring him that he will be okay, it'll be fine and Sherlock wants to believe it.

"I know it will." He voices, his body is steady as it can be as John's fingers hook the waistband of his boxers, pulling the material down until it slides down his legs to rest with his trousers, leaving his pale flesh exposed to John and the camera's that Moriarty is watching them from. He can feel his face heating up at being this exposed, his heart is racing and the blood is rushing in his ears as he hears john fumbling in his pockets, the sound of something metallic being pulled out and torn away from something else.

He jumps at the feeling of warm hands resting on the supple flesh of his arse, rubbing and squeezing slightly as if it suppose to do anything more than to delay the inevitable.

"I'm going to prepare you." John's voice slices through the silence and Sherlock can do nothing more than nod because he fears if he opens his lips that he'll be sick. "I'll be careful... I don't want to hurt you."

"Just get on with it." Sherlock grounds out as the hands are removed before fingers are trailing down his crack, wet and slippery before one is circling his entrance. It becomes apparent that whatever John has is a lubricant, and he is thankful that at least Moriarty had the decency to provide something to make this violation of his person easier.

The detective gasps as the tip of the finger pushes inside him, it's unpleasant and uncomfortable and it makes Sherlock wish that he had done this sometime before now.

"You alright?" John asks, pausing, his finger only inside to the first knuckle.

"Fine." Sherlock breathes, trying to reassure himself more than John. "Just hurry up, we don't have all day." The probably had actually, but This was not something Sherlock wanted to drag out. He didn't want Moriarty to get bored and send someone else to do John's task. He breathes deeply as John pushes his finger in deeper, slowly working it in and out until it can slide in and out with ease.

Sherlock moaned in discomfort as John added a second lubed finger, stretching him further, it burned and not the good kind that came with the feeling of cocaine in his veins. John paused as he heard Sherlock’s discomfort before.

“This isn’t going to get any done any quicker if you stop every time I make a sound.” Sherlock stated, he just wanted to get this over with, to put an end to this humiliation and the show Moriarty was getting.

“I am trying to prep you for the less amount of internal damage.” John hissed. “I doubt you want to go to the hospital from here and explain that your best friend ra-”

“Just get this over with John.” Sherlock breathed

“Relax.” John muttered as he brought his free hand to rest on the small of Sherlock’s back, rubbing the expanse of skin, sherlock knew he was tense, he could feel it in his arms and thighs, and he took a deep breathe, telling himself this was fine, it was just transport, Virginity was a construct of society.

"That's great Sherlock." John said a few moments after as he worked both fingers in to the third knuckle and Sherlock just nodded and breathed through his nose as he became accustom to the feeling. Though that feeling was replaced with a burning sensation as the doctor now had the tips of three of his fingers working their way into Sherlock’s hole, the younger man groaned in discomfort. John’s free hand continued to rub circles above his tail bone, trying to get Sherlock to relax as he worked his fingers inside.

“It’s alright Sherlock.” John reassured him as he stopped the movement of his fingers in and out of the detective’s body.

“I know i-it’s alright.” Sherlock replied, his arms were beginning to hurt and his back was aching.

John took a deep breathe as he stretched Sherlock to the best of his ability, he knew they didn’t have much time to properly prepare the curly haired man as he would have liked. This was going to be unpleasant. He worked all three fingers inside to the third knuckle and stretched him to the best of his ability before removing them. His heart was pounding as he undid the button and fly to his jeans, swallowing loudly as he tried to relieve the dryness that was occurring in his mouth. He shoved his jeans and pants down to his knees, the cool air unpleasant against his skin, but it gave him something else to think about other than the fact he was a few moments away from taking his best friends virginity.

The doctor pulled the second packet of lube he had been given and tore it open, squeezing it’s contents into his palm before placing the trash into his pocket. He closed his eyes as his hand closed around his partially limp cock, the cool lube making him shiver as he tugged at his flesh, coating himself well enough while making himself hard. His heart stopped and he felt sick as he realized there was nothing more that he could do to postpone this so he shuffled forward.

He had never been once to take his partners from behind, but this time it was different, he didn’t want to see the look on Sherlock’s face when he entered him, he didn’t want to see the look on Sherlock’s face as he took his virginity. Gently John rested one hand on Sherlock’s hip using the other to guide himself towards Sherlock’s prepared hole.

“I need you to relax Sherlock.” John said as he pushed the head of his cock against the stretched muscle, “It’ll make it easier.”

Sherlock nodded as he relaxed his body to the best of his ability, telling himself that this was fine, everything was going to be fine. But that all became apparently wrong as John began to push into him. He was bigger, more solid than the gingers that he had used to prepare him with and it hurt as John pushed slowly pushed his glans inside.

The detective groaned in discomfort, pain shooting up his spine as he was stretched larger than he was prepared for.

“It’s alright Sherlock.” John reassured him, the hand on his hip moving to rub his side in some sort of comforting gesture as the other man stopped. They had yet to properly begin and Sherlock wanted none of this, this wasn’t alright anymore. Sherlock took a deep breath, willing his body to relax.

“G-go ahead.” Sherlock breathed, his breath hitching as John sunk in deeper, the pain and discomfort travelling up his spine making him feel as if he was being split in half. He closed his eyes, hands curling into fists as he tried to tell himself this was fine, this was alright. But he was wrong, it wasn’t fine, it wasn’t alright. It was wrong and it was painful.

John stopped as soon as he was completely buried inside Sherlock’s body, giving him time to grow accustom to John’s size.  This was not how Sherlock had planned his first time being, at least not in his mind. In his mind it was something that followed a romantic evening with someone who loved him for who he was. It would be slow, loving, not this, not something that he had to do to stop his friend from having his brains blown out by some madman’s assistant because this was the only way they had figured would be the easiest way to burn the heart out of him.

Sherlock gasped as John began to move, the sensation as far from pleasant and despite the amount of time John had spent preparing him, it was painful and uncomfortable, even with John’s reassurances from above and the feeling of John rubbing his hips and lower back as he moved in and out slowly.

The detective bowed his head, his eyes clamped shut, gasping out in pain with every thrust, god he wanted it to be over, he wanted it to stop, but he refused to voice the request. This was to stop them from killing John he told himself as his eyes began to sting with tears. This was to save John, and that was the only convincing he ever really needed.

He was trying to keep his composure, hold in the sounds, though he was gasping in pain and moaning with discomfort with every movement. That was until John shifted the movement of his hips and his cock brushed against his prostate, it was an unwelcome jolt to the rest of his body, he knew that it was usually a spot that created pleasure but that was the last thing he was feeling as John’s cock brushed it again.

He began to curse at himself as his body responded to the stimulation, Sherlock’s mind supplied that his erection was due to a  physiological response, but it did not stop the humiliation at the fact his body was responding. His hands curled tighter into fists, his nails digging into his skin as he whimpered.

The pace of John’s thrusts were becoming more rapid and the gentle rhythm he had begun with was slowly being abandoned. The grip on his hips was tightening and he could feel John’s nails scrape his skin as they dug into his flesh. Sherlock moaned out and the way he sounded it may of well as been mistaken for pleasure but this was anything but, his insides burned and pain raced up his spine and down his thighs.

“S-Sherlock..” John moaned from above him the other man panting and slick with sweat, his thrusts coming faster and faster as he grew closer to his climax. His intent not to hurt Sherlock seemed to have gone out the window as he slammed into the younger man’s body, causing him to cry out, it was becoming unbearable for Sherlock. The overwhelming sensation that ran through his body every time John hit his prostate, the fact it made his own cock twitch, making his harder than he already was just added to the humiliation of his violation.

The air began to reek of sweat and sex and the feeling of John’s sweaty skin slapping his was something he wanted to forget along with the way it began to feel as if he was being shredded.

“S-stop..please.” Sherlock managed to find his voice but it came out nothing more than a whisper, and much to his horror John didn’t.

“I’m sorry.” John replied as he made a particularly hard thrust, causing Sherlock to cry out, tears forming in his pale eyes from the pain, he couldn’t figure out how to get his body to move with him as a sob bubbled in his chest, nothing seemed to want to work like it should. tears poured down his face as John’s movements were harder, rapid and erratic as he grew close to his climax.

Sherlock gasped out he felt a warm heat pulling in his belly, his mind screaming at the rest of him that this was not wanted, this response wasn’t suppose to happen, but it did nothing to stop the white liquid that spurted from his cock, painting his belly and the bed under him. The way his body tensed as he orgasmed was enough to bring John to the edge,

Sherlock screamed  out in pain as John came deep inside him, his mouth wide open as if the sound was too high for a human to hear. John’s body practically came crashing down on his, the doctor’s chest rising a falling against his back.

“I’m Sorry Sherlock.” John mumbled. “I’m Sorry, I’m so sorry.”

* * *

Moriarty smiled to himself as he leaned back in his chair as he watched the display before him, only looking away as the door opened, his right hand man, Sebastian Moran entering with the files he had requested. The sniper moved to hand the files to his boss, hardly paying attention to what was transpiring behind the one way mirror until a scream grabbed his attention. His eyes flicked towards the glass and a smile tugged at his lips at the sight

“New toy?”

“My favorite one, Sebby”

Just behind the glass was Sherlock Holmes, his dark curls plastered to his forehead with sweat, his pale skin was coated in sweat and splashes of semen as he laid helplessly on the bed, pinned down by the man who laid on top of him. The detective’s face was tear stained and full of a mixture of shock and fear, the sniper could hear him whimper in discomfort and pain from what had just occurred and the fact the other man was still buried inside him.

“Mind if I play?”

“You’re a big boy, Seb. Don’t be so rough, I don’t want you breaking my toy”

“I can’t promise anything Boss.”

****  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock thinks that the torment he has already endured is over, however Moran has other plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> graphic depictions of rape

Sherlock wanted nothing more than John to get off of him, his weight was confining and the feel of his breathe on his neck was unpleasant. But he said nothing, instead he closed his eyes and prayed that Moriarty let them go so he could go home and shower and forget this ever happened.

 

For a moment, it seemed as if his prayers were answered, the door opened revealing a tall, blonde man. One of Moriarty's men, coming to let them go, but as he stepped into the room and closed the door, it didn't seem so likely. Sherlock opened his eyes, watching the man approach the bed, his heart beating quickly in his chest as he took in the man's appearance: Ex-Military, strong, tall, larger than John, most likely in more ways than one.

 

"I think you're done there buddy." Moran stated as he unceremoniously shoved John from the bed, Sherlock gasping as John's cock slipped free. Something warm and unpleasant trickled down his thigh and Sherlock shuttered at the thought of what it was. He watched as Moran moved towards the head of the bed, a smirk on his face as he began to unknot the ropes that held him in place.

 

"I can see why Boss likes you so much." He said as he slipped the rope free. "And since you don't really have anything planned, I think I’ll take a turn now." Sherlock's eyes widened at Moran's words. Take a turn? God. No. Not again. The detective began to fight back as much as he could, finding the energy to try and lash out at the man who just chuckled as he twisted his arm as he turned him onto his back.

 

"John!" He cried as Moran got him on his back, trying to get his friend's attention. Though no response came from the heap on the floor and the detective felt a rush of horror run through his body at the fact he had to fight this man off alone. Without thinking he brought his hand through the air, his palm making contact with skin, a slap echoing through the room and then everything went silent. Moran had been taken by surprise but now Sherlock saw his hit was a major error.

 

"Your Johnny won't be able to help you now." The man replied as he grabbed Sherlock's arms and pinned them above his head as he threw a leg over Sherlock's waist, moving to straddle the other man, leering down at him as he spoke. "And to think I was going to go easy with you."

 

The maliciousness is his voice made Sherlock's blood run cold, and the moment of stillness gave way to struggle as the detective attempted to throw the other man off of him. He thrashed around to the best of his ability, ignoring the pain in his lower body in an attempt to rid him of the weight holding him down. But it was no use as Moran dug his knees into his side and gripped his wrists painfully together, moving them to one hand as he reached for the rope with the other.

 

Sherlock continued to struggle, trying to pull his hands from Moran's firm grasp. He didn't want to be tied down and if he had to be, he didn't want it to be like this. He did not want to see the face of his attacker as he was being violated. He didn't want to see the joy Moran got from causing him pain and humiliation once again.

 

In the end, his struggling was futile as Moran forced his hands into a loop of rope that was pulled so tight he could hardly feel his fingers, causing the already red, sensitive skin sting with pain.

 

His skin began to crawl as the tips of Moran's fingers grazed his chest as he dragged them over the silk material of Sherlock's shirt. He wiggled his body in an attempt to escape the touch, however his attempt was useless and only caused the rope to dig deeper into his skin. But he didn't want to stop fighting, he couldn't.

 

"Keep it up, I like 'em feisty." Moran stated as he eased his way down Sherlock’s body before coming to rest on the top of the other man's thighs. The weight just as unpleasant as the wet fabric that his body was being pressed against.

 

Panic began to settle in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach as it became obvious that no amount of movement would get the other man off of him. His mind tried to think of another way, something that would put an end to this and he could go. He took a shuttered breath as he fought the ever sinking feeling in his stomach as an idea came to mind. He had become hated for his sharp wit and even sharper tongue and his observation skills and the impulse to voice them had only added on to the hatred that most people felt for him. Perhaps there was a chance that would work here, that he could hit the right nerve and Moran would go running off with his tail tucked between his legs. Sherlock turned his attention to the man straddling his legs, the weight and heat from his body was unpleasant against the bare skin of his thighs.

 

_Ex-Military, Sniper, dishonorably discharged, big game sports hunter, dislikes certain kinds of authority- most likely those with strict orders with little to no desire to take other ideas and points of view into consideration. Exposed to violence at a young age with a tendency to lash out violently if needed, Sadistic in nature- stems from childhood trauma._

 

Sherlock shifted his focus once more, shoving down the panic as he gathered his words and found his voice to speak.

"Your sadistic tendencies is your coping mechanism from childhood trauma when you witnessed your mother's assault by your own father-" Sherlock's words were cut short a large hand clammed itself over his mouth. The sniper leaned forward, his knees once again digging into Sherlock's body.

 "I don't give a shit about any of that. You think that will scare me away? You think your smart mouth can get you out of this?” Moran asked, a sharp yet surprised edge had met his voice as he squeezed his hand a little tighter around Sherlock's mouth, his nails digging into his skin slightly. The panic that had somewhat subsided in Sherlock's stomach flared up, his heart began to pound against his rib cage as a whimper escaped his lips. His eyes were wide as he took in the malicious intent in the face looming over him, causing him to silently plead to himself that John would get up off the floor and save him.

 

John laid on his side on the cold cement, his body ached from hitting the hard surface as he was shoved off of Sherlock's body. He could hear the exchange going on above him. He wracked his brain, attempting to find some part of the conversation he had exchanged with Moriarty where it was stated that his right hand man would get a chance to violate the detective. However, there was none, of course he wouldn’t have said anything about it, but they had a deal. That was why John took his friends violation into his own hands, to save his own life and to prevent someone else from hurting him in such a way. Slowly John pushed himself into a sitting position before getting to his feet, pulling his pants and trousers up as he went. His body no longer felt weak from his orgasm, though the sick feeling as still present. His attention was finally drawn to the bed by a muffled whimper, it was then it registered in his mind that the man who had shoved him off to the side like he was nothing at all was straddling the detective’s thighs while looming rather menacingly over him, his hand clamped tightly over Sherlock's mouth. In a heartbeat John rushed forward, his arms wrapping hooking themselves under Moran's, his hands grabbing fist full of his shirt as he proceeded to yank him back in an attempt to free Sherlock. Though his effort seemed to have little effect on the other man as he was still settled on Sherlock's pale thighs.

 

Moran's attention had shifted from the body under his to the body attempting to pull him off.  He growled in annoyance as John gave his body another tug, which did nothing more than pull him back an inch or two. The sniper slapped his hands over the pair clinging on to his shirt, pulling at the fingers, prying them loose while John muttered. “Get off of him.”

 

“All in good time.” Sebastian replied as he jabbed his elbow into John's rib cage, the pain and the surprise causing him to gasp and his grip to slacken, giving Moran the opening he needed. He twisted his body enough to get his arm between them and shoved John. Hard. The doctor stumbled backwards, tripping on his own feet as he tried to regain his footing, landing on the ground with a thud. Moran’s lips formed a smirk as John pushed himself to his feet, and in a blink of an eye, the sniper pulled a revolver from behind his back.

 

“Why don't you just scurry out of here before your oh so valiant effort will be in vain.” Moran stated as he raised his weapon, his thumb clicking off the safety.

 

John didn't move, instead he squared his shoulders. “I'm not leaving this room without him.” he nodded his head in the direction of Sherlock, whose eyes were focused more on Moran's finger in the trigger than John.

 

A shot rang through the room and John cried out in pain as his left hand applied pressure to his upper right arm, warm blood slowly oozing out of the new wound he was just given.

 

“Shall we try this again?”

 

“No!” The answer came not from John, but from Sherlock, the younger man's eyes were wide with panic as blood seeped through John’s fingers. The last thing he wanted was John to get hurt because of him.

 

“Sherlock-”

 

“I'll be fine John, it's alright. Go.” Sherlock stated offering John what he hoped was a reassuring smile. For a moment, it seemed as if John was going to stay, but after a moment he gave a single nod and began to back up before turning around to head to the door. John was half relieved that he had been reassured he could leave, however he felt guilty at the fact he was leaving Sherlock at the mercy of Moriarty's right hand man.

 

The door closed with a snap, leaving Sherlock and Moran alone. The sniper chuckled lowly to himself as he turned his attention to the younger man under him. The expression on his face changed as he moved back into his original position, leaning over Sherlock. This time, instead of clamping his hand over the detective's mouth, he caressed his face. The back of his fingers passing gently over the soft, smooth, pale skin, which contrasted greatly with his darker and rougher skin on his hands.

“Look at you, sacrificing yourself to save your friend. Playing hero. Some things just don't change, do they?” he murmured softly, his voice low and full of tenderness which did not meet his eyes, which still burned with his malicious intent. Sherlock moved his head slightly in an attempt to get away from the touch. However, the weight on his body and the tight grip of the rope on his wrists made it difficult to escape the light yet disgusting touch. Moran chuckled lowly in his throat as he watched the younger man under his body as he tried to move away from his touch. His fingers lingered a moment longer as he shifted himself upwards slightly and leaned in just a fraction more, until his hips were flush against that of his victim’s. Without word or warning, he rolled his hips against Sherlock's, causing the other man to grasp in surprise before a moan escaped his lips.

A look of horror crossed Sherlock's face at his vocalization of pleasure while Moran grinned evilly and leaned in closer, his mouth millimeters away from the detective's ear.

 

“You're so responsive.” The sniper whispered, his hot, humid breathe dancing across Sherlock’s skin, causing it to crawl as humiliation began to set in once more. He refused to look at the man pressed against his body, not wanting to see the look of glee that was most likely plastered on the blonde's face. His attacker rolled his hips once more, causing a groan to escape from his lips, no matter how hard he tried to keep it in his chest. He ignored the movement above him, but soon regretted not being prepared for the rough chapped lips that were pressed against his hard. It was sloppy, possessive, aggressive, and caused him to moan, not in pleasure, but in disgust. The detective's body thrashed around under the weight of the man above him, attempting to break the kiss, but it was useless. Moran was bigger, stronger, and had the upper hand.

 

The kiss was broken as Moriarty's right hand man pulled away, leaving Sherlock panting for breath as he closed his eyes. The feeling of calloused hands running up his sides made his skin crawl and stomach churn. The hands traveling up higher than John's had in his attempt to soothe him. This was being dragged out slowly, for his pain and humiliation and for someone else's pleasure. It seemed as if Moran was inspecting his body with his hands before he finished undressing him.

 

The curly haired man gasped as the cold air rushed against his skin as his shirt was opened unceremoniously, buttons popping off as Moran pulled the fabric apart, exposing his torso to the air. “My, my, you are a pretty little thing aren’t you?” Moran’s voice came out in an almost purr that sent an unpleasant shiver down Sherlock’s spine. The detective closed his eyes as a way to avoid seeing the hungry look the sniper was giving his pale body. He screwed them shut as tightly as he could as the body above his shifted once more, his teeth digging into his lips to prevent any sound from escaping them. As clothed hips rolled against his once more. His teeth tore away from his lips as he gasped in surprise as warm breath brushed against his neck before the warm feeling of chapped lips settled just below his jaw. The kiss was soft and chaste, though it was soon replaced with a quick nip that turned into biting and sucking that would most likely leave visible reminders if he ever got out of there.

 

Sherlock cursed his body as another moan escaped his lips from a nip to the right spot on his neck, which caused the blonde on top of him to chuckle against his skin, rather pleased that his ministrations were getting the responses that he most likely wanted. However it seemed as if the trail of marks left on the pale neck was not enough for his tormentor as his hands began to roam the brunette’s chest, moving upward as his mouth moved downward. His hands stopping just over Sherlock’s nipples. Pinching and twisting them until they turned hard under his fingers.

 

Disgust began to fill Sherlock at the response Moran’s touch was having on his body, and while he knew it was just a physiological response to stimulation, he couldn’t help but feel betrayed at the way he moaned and by the unwelcome feeling that was pooling in the bottom of his stomach. Sherlock still refused to open his eyes as the weight was put back on his legs as Moran sat up. The blonde was delighted with himself as he looked down at his toy, the prize that his boss was allowing him to play with, and while it may not have been part of the original plan, things had certainly been changeable... Sebastian looked down at Sherlock, his lips parted. His milky white skin glistening by the sweat. His arms outstretched over his head, bound by the rope. His entire body completely vulnerable and under the mercy of Moran's bigger, stronger body above him. He looked obscene. He couldn’t help but wonder how good it would feel once he had his cock buried inside the body below him. The thought made his cock throb and begin to strain the fabric of his jeans. God he wanted to fuck him senseless, Fuck him hard until his arse would ache for days, until his legs turns to jelly and he wouldn't be able to walk. Until his entire body would be bruised. Until the pain and humiliation will stay with him for days and months and years to come. Until all he could do is beg and cry. Until all his tears would run dry. And all his fight and all his energy had been drained out of him.

 

That was what Moran wanted to do.

 

He inched his way down Sherlock's legs, his fingers brushing periodically over his skin, watching as his legs twitched at the touch until he reached the bundle of cloth at his victim’s knees which served as a reminder that someone else had already taken the pale man under him. It was no matter to Sebastian as he hooked his fingers under the fabric, pulling it down the rest of the way as he went until he was able to pull them of and toss them aside in a fluid motion, leaving the detective nearly bare.

 

Sherlock had kept his legs as still and as stiff as he possibly could as Moran had discarded his trousers. His heart was beating quickly, pounding against his chest so hard and fast it almost hurt. He was dreading what was coming next as he felt hands grip his ankles in an attempt to spread his legs. He willed them not to move, not to budge even an inch to where the sniper could worm his way in between them.

 

“God...No....please.” Sherlock begged as the man attempted to move his legs apart, however, it seemed as if his plea went unheard as Moran twisted his leg in such a way he had to give into the movement or risk injury. He was hurting and uncomfortably so without an injured limb adding to it as well. A whimper escaped his lips as Moran's body slid to fill the space on the mattress between his legs. The warmth of his body was unwanted and unwelcome and made Sherlock open his eyes and glance around the man to the door. He was hoping, praying, that John would somehow burst through the door, armed, with every intent on saving him from the pain and humiliation that was only moment away. However, as the sound of Moran's zipper being undone and the rustling of fabric, he knew John wasn't coming. Not this time.

 

Moran's hand straddled Sherlock's inner thigh as he licked his lips. He could feel the muscles under his hand twitch as he spreads the younger man's legs a little wider with his knees  so he can fit between them easier while simultaneously working his jeans down enough that his cock springs free. he smirks as he looks at Sherlock's face, he tries to look indifferent as Moran moves to grip his hips and pulls him closer to his body. Sebastian can feel Sherlock's body heat as he lines up his cock to the other man's entrance. If he was merciful he would have taken a moment to prepare him for the intrusion. However, he is not. He isn't even going to give Sherlock the courtesy of lube like his friend had. He didn't even afford him the courtesy of a warning to be somewhat prepared for the intrusion as he began to push the head of his cock into the body under him. However this was less about Sherlock's comfort and well being and more about Moran's play and pleasure. Sherlock thrashed around from the intrusion, his pale cheeks turning crimson. Without a chance for Sherlock's body to prepare for further intrusion, Moran plunged into the younger man's body. A gasping cry escaped Sherlock's mouth and Moran smirked devilishly at the sound. He kept his body still for a moment, savoring the velvet heat of Sherlock's unwilling arse, he rolled his hips slightly. Sherlock's pained, desperate cries and debauched look only made his cock throb even harder. He  pulled Sherlock's legs over his shoulders and held down Sherlock's hips. Moran gripped them so  hard that there would definitely be marks .He pulled out slowly, perhaps giving Sherlock a false notion that maybe he cpuld go easy on him,  that was until he rammed  himself back in with a punishing pace drawing another gasping cry from Sherlock’s lips. It wasn’t the usual slow and gentle pace people usually start out with. But this wasn’t usually and it wasn’t for mutual pleasure either. He continued to pound into Sherlock. In, out,in, out. The heat and friction felt heavenly to Moran and the sounds that Sherlock was making- oh god it was sinful. Moaning and panting and crying like a whore while his body was being defiled .His lips parted, cupid's bow red and shining with saliva. Nipples pink and hard. His legs shaking under Moran's grip. Moran angled his hips upwards slightly and thrust in once more. This time Sherlock let's out an almighty moan.

 

"Please...stop- unhh--"

Another hard thrust. Involuntarily, Sherlock raised his hips, giving into Moran's thrusts.

 

"Stop--" his eyes were clenched tightly. Holding back tears save for one that rolled down his blushing cheeks.

 

Moran knew then and he licked his lips.

 

This was his chance to own Sherlock. This was his chance to tear him apart completely and own every fiber of his being, his body and mind.

 

At that moment, Sherlock was at war. With himself. Torn between his body's sensory pleasure and is mind telling him that this was unwanted and it was wrong. So this was his chance to ruin the great detective. To own him. Moran adjust himself again and thrusts his hips into the younger man's body again and again. Each thrust angled to hit his prostate. It wasn't about pleasure. It was ownership, marking the other man as his as his thrusts became relentless, brutal and punishing and Sherlock's pliant body had no choice but to take it.

 

Sherlock felt as if his body was being torn to shreds with each brutal thrust. Pain searing up his spine and down his legs while a body betraying moan escaped his lips as the hits to his prostate caused unwanted pleasure to course through his system. He wanted to ignore the warmth pooling in his lower stomach as he clenched his eyes shut even tighter. Tears were leaking down the sides of his face almost freely now and the humiliation that had been growing was now close to consuming him as he realized the stimulation had caused himself to grow hard. Sherlock cried out in pain and humiliation at a particularly brutal thrust.

 

“Stop, pl-please.” Sherlock begged, his voice shaky and hoarse, but his plea was met with harsh laughter and harder deeper thrusts.

 

“You seem to be enjoying this.” Moran replied, one of his hands releasing his hips in order to drag a finger along the underside of Sherlock's erection. The detective gasped out as the calloused hand wrapped around his cock and began to move in time with Moran's thrusts.

 

Moran watched the horror dawn on Sherlock's face as he grasped his cock, pumping it with his harsh thrusts. Sherlock's hips once again lifted up towards Moran’s and a guttural moan escaped his lips. Moran continued his ministrations, watching as Sherlock slowly came undone in his hands. It was with a well angled thrust that Sherlock's body tensed, his back arching off the bed and his muscles tightening around the cock buried in his body as his own painted his chest and belly with his own semen. Moran chuckled as Sherlock turned his head, hiding his face the best he could in his arm. Most likely. To hide his pain, horror and humiliation that were painted across his face.

 

Sherlock silently begged for his torment to come to an end as he hid his face in his arm as Moran's thrust grew frantic and rapid and with one final thrust, He came deep inside the younger man. Drawing a scream from his already hoarse throat. Moran stayed buried inside his victim for a few moments before withdrawing from sherlock's body with a sickening sound, his legs slipping from his shoulders as he slid off the bed and tugged up his jeans. His eyes dancing over his handy work, taking in the man's debauched look and he knew then he wanted Sherlock again.

 

Moran walked up towards the head of the bed, his finger slowly trailing down Sherlock's face as he leaned in, a smile playing out on his lips. “You were brilliant, so responsive, so delicate, we'll have to do this again sometime.” the touch lingered on his cheek for a moment, soft, gentle, deceiving, against his skin before it roughly grasped his face, pulling it away from his arm. Sherlock’s eyes opened in surprise at the rough movement of his head, to find Moran’s face only inches away from his own. Amusement and enjoyment were written on the lines of the blondes face as he offered him a cold smile.

 

“I own you now Holmes.” Moran whispered and Sherlock whimpered as the grip became firmer on his face as Moran searched his face for understanding before letting go when he saw something that pleased him.

 

Sherlock had no idea what was coming next, he had learned better than to expect anything good from the door opening, especially freedom after his last encounter, so he waited for whatever ill destined fate that was coming from the open door.

 

“That’s enough play time for now, don’t you think Sebby?” Moriarty’s voice came from the room on the other side of the opened door “It’s time for your toy and his pet to go home now,  think we have had both of them long enough.”


	3. Chapter 3

Moran cast a glance towards the door and gave a singular nod to Moriarty's voice before moving forward to undo the binds that had dug into Sherlock's skin. He hissed in discomfort as Moran tugged on the ropes harshly, just above the knot as a way to bring the rope closer to him to untie, causing them to dig once more into the wounds already present on his wrists. Moran's movements were harsh, the jerking movements obviously made to cause as much discomfort as possible. However as the rope was untied and slipped away, relief flooded Sherlock's wrists, hands,  especially fingers. 

He tried to flex his fingers, the joints of which were stiff and tingled as blood finally rushed into them. On the downside, the detective could feel the throbbing in his wounded wrists. It didn't take a genius to figure out the wounds were bad, the evidence lied in the rope. It's strands died crimson in the area that had dug into his pale flesh. 

Sherlock waited until Moran had taken a step back before he truly began to move as much as his battered body allowed.  he took a moment to move his fingers, disliking the tingling sensation and the stiffness in his hands as blood flow was restored.However that feeling was soon overshadowed by a sharp stinging pain in his shoulders as he began to move his arms down to his sides, The muscles in his shoulders were stiff and swollen from the fact his arms were tied above his head for so long. with his arms at his side, he dreaded the part that came next. He knew he would have to move the rest of his body all at once in order to cause himself the least  discomfort. 

Sherlock waited  a moment for Moran to leave the room, however the sniper stood off to the side with his arms cross over his chest. He wasn’t even afforded the privacy of gathering his clothes and getting dressed. The detective braced his hands against the filthy mattress, the wounds on his wrists screaming as he applied pressure to them as he slowly began to push himself  upright.  He grumbled in discomfort as he sat up, as pain radiating up his spine and in an attempt not to cry out, he dug his fingers into the fabric as he sat completely up. He waited for a moment for the pain to lessen before he began to move once more. 

The detective refused to meet  Moran’s gaze as he began to button his shirt. The majority of the buttons had been lost when Moran had  ripped the fabric apart, however this was mostly to salvage what was left of his modesty and dignity if nothing else. Sherlock jumped slightly as 

Moran tossed his waded up pants and trousers. He glanced up at the sniper through his fringe and lashes as he reached for the fabric that laid besides him. The fabric was covered in dirt, grim, and whatever else had been on the floor. Slowly he pulled on his clothes, feeling rather weary of how off his body felt as he attempted to dress. Sherlock managed to stand as he finished dressing, pulling up his pants and trousers up over his hips before tucking his shirt in to them and fastening his trousers closed.. He tried to present himself as normal as possible. 

Sherlock tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of being watched by Moran, who had yet to look away. Instead he focused his attention on Sherlock, looking at him as if he was a piece of meat- with longing and desire. 

“Alright Holmes, out you go.” Moran stated after a moment as he waved his hand to the door. Sherlock faltered for a moment before slowly moving towards the door. with one arm wrapped around his middle as he limped forward. He was  unsettled of the Moran’s presence behind him . He wasn’t close enough Sherlock could feel his body heat, however he was close enough to make him feel rather uncomfortable. 

The room beyond the door was empty, Moriarty had  already left the room and John was nowhere in sight, Instead the only things that where present were the things that had been taken from Sherlock before he had been tied down. His shoes, coat, and suit jacket on the chair near the window that overlooked the room he had just came from. Sherlock felt queasy as his stomach rolled with the realization his enemy had watched his violation just beyond the glass. The detective attempted to ignore that fact as he moved forward to gather his belongings. He refused to sit as he slipped on his shoes, the back of his oxfords bending as he slid his foot inside without untying them. Even in the most pressing cases he found the time to slip them on properly, however this was different. He just wanted to put as much distance between himself and this wretched place as fast as he could. 

The suit jacket helped to hide the state of his shirt, though not as much as he would have liked as he moved. While it held the silky fabric closed and hide the fact it was indeed missing most of it's buttons, the tight fitting shirt still hung open slightly at his chest, revealing the still flush skin underneath. The long, thick coat provided the most comfort and coverage to Sherlock as he slipped it on his body, popping up the collar to hide the bruises that had formed on his neck. Once buttoned up, the coat hid the ruined nature of his clothes and made him appear as he always did. Though that was far from how he felt. 

The detective felt his body shaking slightly as he shivered, though it was more from shock than from the cold. He said nothing as he turned to face Moran as he ran a quick hand through his hair  in an attempt to lay any strands out of place flat. He shoved his hands in his pocket to find his scarf bundled up inside one of them, though he refused to put it on. He stood quietly for a moment, his hands curled into fists in his coat pockets as he attempted to gather himself. Behind Moran ca,e footsteps that made Sherlock feel uneasy as he shuffled his feet to stand up straighter. If it was Moriarty he wanted to present himself with dignity, pretend everything was fine, perfect, even though he could feel himself cracking on the inside as his mind tried to find a way to cope with the violation of his transport. 

It was not Moriarty who appeared from the hallway behind Moran,however, instead it was John. And Sherlock had no idea how he should feel. John was his best friend, his only friend. His actions where to save his own life, but that did not change the fact that Sherlock felt different. Numb, cold, used, owned, dirty. 

John stopped as he noticed Sherlock as he peered over Moran’s shoulder, the brunette stood still in the middle of the room, wrapped up in his coat. He appeared paler than usual and there were visible marks peaking out from under his clothes, but other than that he appeared to be Sherlock. The doctor took a few more steps, stepping from behind the sniper and into the empty space of the room. From here he could see the slight tremble in Sherlock’s form, the greenish tint to his skin as he appeared to be sick to his stomach.  

“A-Are you okay?” John asked and Moran chuckled from behind him. It was a stupid question to ask. Of course Sherlock was not okay, he had been violated by two different men while John had just been shot. Sherlock was still suffering from his injuries while  surprisingly John’s had already been taken care of His arm bandaged and held to his chest subconsciously, making it more apparent the main target of this attack was the man standing before him. 

“I'm fine. John” Sherlock replied after a moment of silence. “It's just transport, remember?” Sherlock's tone of voice sounded nearly normal, however there was a hallow echo to it, one that made John feel uneasy. Everything about Sherlock at that moment made him feel uneasy if he was honest. His face was emotionless just as his eyes were as well. 

John said nothing, he could find nothing to say actually. This was what would be considered normal behavior for Sherlock, the disregard for his body, the nearly normal tone of his voice.. Sherlock should have been angry, distraught, showing some sort of emotion after what had occurred. Instead he  was standing quietly, muscles tensed, looking everywhere but at John and Moran a few feet behind him. 

“R-Right....Just transport.” The words seemed to tumble out of John’s mouth after silence had fallen between them, though he wished he had said nothing at all as Sherlock just nodded slightly, his eyes glued to the ground, his hands moving in his pockets in what John assumed in a clenching  motion. Perhaps it was get feelings in his hands, though it may have been something to focus on rather than what may be coming  next. 

There was hardly a chance for silence to manifest itself after John spoke up affirming Sherlock’s statement before Moran spoke. 

“I highly suggest you two get a move on if you wish to get on out of here....unless of course you want another go Holmes?” 

A wave of nausea rolled through the detectives stomach at the snipers words. The last thing he wanted was 'another go' as Moran had so eloquently put it. The only thing he wanted was a large amount of distance between him and this hellhole. 

“We are unaware  of the exit.” Sherlock answered as he finally lifted his gaze from the ground to look above Moran’s head. “If we had known which way to go, we wouldn't be standing here right now.”

The grin that had been plastered on Moran’s face fell slightly at the reply, no doubt already longing another chance to cause  Sherlock further pain, discomfort and humiliation and he was undoubtedly disappointed at the fact the chance was slipping through his fingers. 

“Right this way then.” The sniper stated as he took a step backwards before turning around to lead them down the hall John had appeared from. The detective  motioned for his companion to follow behind Moran and refusing to move until John had began to follow his tormentor. Sherlock waited until there was what he felt was a comfortable distance between himself and John before he began to walk, falling into a slow pace behind him to keep the distance.  Had what had just transpired been different, he would have been as close to John as he could have been in an attempt to gain some type of reassurance and some feeling of protection. However he didn’t feel that way about his friend, colleague, that way at the moment.

_ He didn’t stop.  _

The hallway seemed to be long and endless as Moran led them on and  for a moment the consulting detective wondered if they were really going to let them go, after all James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran where the type of men to toy with you and your emotions, causing pain and anguish for their own enjoyment.

_ I own you now Holmes _

Sherlock shivered unpleasantly as the words rang through his head causing him to pull his coat around his body tighter more for some reassurance that he was not falling apart. He couldn’t fall apart, not there, he couldn't let them see that they had won. 

_ Its just transport. _

 Sherlock’s heart began to pound in his chest as they finally reached the end of the hall, this was it. This was where they would be let go or so he hoped. Moran cast a glance backwards as he moved forward to push the door open slowly, the hinges creaking as metal rubbed against metal as the door swung open cautiously. Laying just beyond it was darkness, asphalt and the scent of fresher air. They were free to go.


	4. Free

Sherlock’s heart was beating so hard he was certain that the other two could hear it and if Moran as looking hard enough he could see the faint movement of his clothes as his heart pounded against his ribs. His eyes shifted quickly from Moran and where he held the door open and the hustle and bustle just outside of the door.

_Perhaps this is a trick._

However it didn't seem that way as John moved forward

_Maybe he just wants me_

John stared at the sight of London from where he stood just a few feet from the doorway, his heart pounding in his chest as he began to move slowly at first, one foot in front of the other, before he fell into a steadier stride with his shoulders squared and his head held high as if he was silently daring Moran to close the door in his face.  Instead the sniper just offered him a toothless grin that made him feel uneasy as he stepped over the threshold and into the cool London air.

Sherlock’s eyes glanced between Moran and John just beyond the door  as he began to more forward, one foot in front of the other at a faster more determined pace. The detective held his head a littler higher as he moved passed Moran, who offered him a menacing smile followed by the words “I’ll see you soon Holmes.” Moran’s voice was low and made chills run down Sherlock’s spine making him uneasy. There was some foreboding behind the words, but the detective refused to acknowlege the older man, refusing to give him any more satisfaction than what he has already gained from his pain and humility. Instead he continued to hold his expressionless mask into place until he was securely over the threshold.

Once he was certain that there was no chance the sniper would reach out and grab him by his coat, dragging him back inside kicking and screaming, Sherlock let out a breath he had no idea he had been holding. one. two. three. four. five steps further and he stopped, turning his head slowly to glance over his shoulder to watch the door swing shut before the sound of metal scraping against metal as it was pulled shut against the door jamb.

Sherlock’s shoulders sagged as the tension in his body melted away and he shut his eyes as he allowed the cool London air to brush against his warm skin and fill his lungs as he took a deep breath.

_You’re fine. They did let you go._

* * *

 

The cab was hot and stuffy as Sherlock sat as closed to the door as he possibly could, placing as much distance between himself and John. The walk to the curb seemed to be the longest in his life as pain shot up his spine with each step he could. He could feel the pain now, as the adrenaline faded from his body, making him more aware of how sore he actually was. But that was to be expected. Moran had been less than gentle with him and it was apparent he would be feeling it for days.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see John observing him. Guilt written across the doctors face as he looked him over like one would look over a news paper article. He knew that John was trying to find something, anything to say that would break the silence, but what could be said? What did this mean to their friendship? Did they even still have one? Sherlock wasn’t completely sure, things felt tense in the distance between them. Whether it was his feelings of humiliation and tense muscles or if it was John’s guilt, he had no idea.

From the front of the Cab, the driver threw glances Sherlock’s way through the rear-view mirror. He knew he was a mess. His hair was probably still mused and some of his chest could be seen as his shirt stretched around his body as he sat against the seat, undoubtedly showing off the marks Moran had left during his assault. he pulled his coat tighter around him and pressed his body closer to the door and adverted his eyes.

Before the cab had come to a full and complete stop in front of Baker Street, Sherlock had the door open and was almost completely out of the vehicle. He had to get away from the tension thick air, from the unwanted stares and the unpleasant assumptions the driver had most likely come to by the look of him.

John had been watching Sherlock throughout the ride back to the flat, looking for words to say. But nothing came to mind, nothing that wasn’t mindless small talk, something that Sherlock hated. Instead he sat their in silence, his injured arm held close to his chest subconsciously. He could feel the tension in the cab and wanted nothing more than to find a way to cut, tear it in half and relieve the pressure that was building. He wanted to go back and change the last few hours of their lives. Take back what he had done to Sherlock, defend him against Moran, perhaps stopping him from going out all together. That was impossible though.

He was surprised at the fact Sherlock had flung the door open and was making his way up 221B’s stoop before the cab had come to a complete stop. John blinked a few times as he watched Sherlock’s figure limp through the street door and disappear inside leaving him to pay. He sighed as he pulled out his wallet with his good arm and pulled out the right notes and handed them to the cabbie as he slipped out of the backseat.

 

There was a sinking feeling in his stomach that this was just a precursor as to what was to come.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock is up the stairs and in the bathroom before John has finished paying for the cab. He's tired, sore, and humiliated. He can smell Moran on his clothes and body and he can feel his hands gripping his hips

He refuses to look at himself in the mirror as he peels of his coat and suit jacket, tossing them on the chair by the shower. His tailored shirt is ruined, bit he doesn't care as he unbuttons the few fastenings left and tosses on the floor. The detective falters as he undoes his trousers and it takes him a moment to shove them down to the ground. His heart pounds as he slips his thumbs under the waist band of his pants and tries to slip out of them, wincing as he has to literally peel them from his skin

His stomach rolls as the material falls to the ground covered with blood and semen. He'll burn them the first chance he gets. But at the moment he wants to shower. He wants to remove the evidence of his violation from his body. Maybe when he does, he won't feel so used and dirty

Sherlock moves gingerly to the shower, trying to ignore the pain between his legs that is traveling up his spine. The shower springs to life as he turns on the water and waits until a plume of steam develops before stepping in. The movement makes his body scream as does the hot water. But it's a welcoming feeling.

Sherlock stands under the hot spray with his eyes closed for a moment, allowing the hot beads of water turn his alabaster skin pink. After what seems like forever he opens his eyes and sets grabs the flannel he leaves on the shelf and his soap and gets to work scrubbing his skin. He works the flannel into a lather before dragging it across his skin, the scent if the soap washing over his senses, drowning the smell of blood, sex, John, and Moran. It provides a momentary comfort.

He has no choice but to look at the marks left on him as he attempts to wash off the last few hours. The bite marks on his neck and the bruises on his chest and hips from being grabbed and held down as Moran rammed into his body.

 From what Sherlock can see, his wrists are the worst. Rubbed raw by the rope and bruised from being so tightly restrained.

Tears prick the back of his eyes the soap stings the raw skin of his flesh. He moves mechanically as he scrubs the dried blood and fluid from his thighs before he sets out to scrubs between his legs. A sob escapes his lips and tears slid down his face as he sets out to feverishly clean what is left of the men from his body.

Sherlock pretends he doesn't see the blood circling the drain and that it's not caused bu the area he is so determined to clean.

He stops scrubbing when his shoulders began to ache and the water began to run cold and it's no longer a choice. Sherlock shuts off the water before he begins to shiver and steps out of the shower carefully, telling himself the pain is from his shower and not from the rape.

The flannel gets tossed with the clothes to be burned as he grabs a towel to wrap it around himself.

Despite the shower, he doesn't feel clean, he can still feel the hands on his body and there is the uncomfortable feeling of something inside him.

The towel isn't enough to cover him. He feels exposed as he slowly makes him way to the glass door that separates the bathroom and his bedroom.

His room provided some comfort and security as he searched for something to dress himself in, finding his sweats, a t shirt and a thick dressing gown enough for now.

There is a sense of vulnerability as he tied the gown closed. Moran's words coming back to him.

He made an effort to ensure the Windows in his room were shut and locked and so was his bedroom door.

He finally settles down on his bed, hiding himself under the covers. He positions himself on his side to watch the door and window for signs of an intruder.

The lamp on his nightstand stays on. He has no intentions of turning it off either. Afraid that perhaps the monster who ripped him open is hiding in the shadows.

* * *

 

  
John didn't know what to expect really, perhaps he thought they would talk about what had occured, however that didn't seem likely. He had come up the stairs to find Sherlock already in the shower and he chose to sit in his chair until he heard the water shut off.

He had left Sherlock with Moran, he himself had taken Sherlock and he didn't stop even when Sherlock begged him too. There was nothing he could do or say that would take away what had happened to Sherlock or his hand in it.

However, in the back of his mind, there was a voice, muttering this was Sherlock's doing. That what had happened was far from John"s doing

 


	6. Chapter 6

_ Someone is above him, holding him down, their body pressed flushed against him. Sherlock tries to break free but their grip is too strong and their weight prevents him from moving from under them. He can hear them, laughing at him as another set of hands runs down his body. A scream rips through his throat as they enter him, and then finally he can see Moran's face looming above his, sneering down at him as he drives him into the mattress. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ He wants nothing more than to get away, get out from under him, but he can't. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Above him, Moran is laughing at his pain, taunting him. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "You know you want this." Moran states as he leans in closer, his features are shifting until the face looming above him isn't Sebastian's at all. Instead, it's John... _ __   
  


_ John who didn't stop when he had begged, John who had left him there for Moran. John who was mercilessly fucking him against his will and enjoying it _   
  
Sherlock woke with a start. His heart pounding painfully against his ribs as he pushed himself up right. Pain radiated through his body and he could still feel the hands on his body.    
  
"Dream...it had been a dream." he muttered to himself as he ran a hand through his hair, realizing for the first time he was drenched in sweat.

 

The smell of it alone was enough to make his stomach churn, providing another unwanted reminder of the day before.    
  
He needed to shower. He needed to feel clean. He needed to get the ghosts hands off his body.    
  
Sherlock threw back the covers as he slid out of bed, taking care not to move too quickly. He made his way to the wardrobe across the room to pull out a suit to wear.    
  
He wanted to pretend the day before didn't happen, that he hadn't been taken twice against his will. The only way he could do that was if he at least tried to act normal.

 

The clothes, flannel, and towel he had left on the floor where still where he left them the night before when he entered the bathroom. Serving as a reminder he needed to burn them. 

 

He scooted them towards the glass door that lead to his bedroom before hanging his suit up behind the door that lead to the hallway. 

 

Sherlock refused to look in the mirror once more. Instead opting to throw his dressing gown over  to hide the reflective surface. 

 

He refuses to look at his body as he undresses and insists the soreness is due to a fight with a suspect the night before. 

 

He turns the shower on and waits for the water to get ad hot as he can stand it before stepping in, hissing at the sting of the water droplets against his skin. The water is warm enough to tinge his skin pink within moments, but that's what he wants. He wants it hot, to sting and burn and destroy the touches he felt in his dream.

 

Sherlock covers his body in lather and spends the same amount of time washing himself as the night before. He wants to feel clean and be clean and the only way he can do that is if he scrubs and scrubs until the water has gone cold and he has no choice but to exit before he gets sick. 

 

He stands there in the shower for a moment as the water drips from his body before he forces himself to move. The bathroom is full of thick steam that has fogged up the glass door and fills his lungs. 

 

Sherlock has no choice but to look at his body as he dries himself off. Dark purple bruises have blossomed across his hips and wrists. The lacerations in his skin will have to be wrapped up to hide from view and to keep clean. 

 

He tries to dress without his mind playing over how his body received it's marks. But its difficult. He is used to picking up on things others don't and spouting off details, he can't help it in this situation, no matter how much he tries to shove down the thoughts. 

 

Steam billows out of the bathroom as he opens the door and steps out into the hallway. He leaves the clothes on the floor and the dressing gown on the mirror. He'll clean up after John's gone, or at least after his morning tea. 

 

Sherlock takes a moment to square his shoulders and fix his suit jacket before heading into the kitchen. Nothing seems out of the ordinary as he goes to plug in the kettle. He takes his time pulling a mug down from the cupboard, and waits for the water to boil. 

 

The flat is quiet and wonders if he's alone until the stairs creak as John descends the stairs. 

 

He pretends not to hear anything as the kettle whistles and he turns it off and pours the water into the waiting mug. 

 

Behind him, he can hear movement and he tries his best not to tense as John comes to a halt somewhere behind him. Near the table, his mind supplies.

 

Its John who speaks first, Sherlock can feel his eyes aimed at his back as he speaks.    
  
"D-Did you want to go to the clinic this morning?" John began, his voice unsteady, wavering as he searches for the words he's looking for. "To get a kit done?"    
  
Kit. A rape kit. The thought makes 

  
Sherlock's entire body go tense and he refuses to turn and look at the doctor.    
  
"Why would I do such a thing?" he asks reaching for the sugar to pour into his tea."Its not like they will get anything from it. There is no DNA, no evidence to collect. No reason to waste people's time when they can be helping those who really need it John."

 

“Right.” John clears his throat and Sherlock turns to head to the sitting room. 

 

“Sherlock, Look. I just wanted to-”

 

“John, don’t” Sherlock snapped, finally turning his attention to John. He is standing by the table, back ramrod straight, looking above Sherlock's head. His right arm is bandaged up underneath his shirt. 

 

“You did what had to be done, that's all. Don't you have to be at the clinic or something?” The last part came out harsher than he intended. But he wanted to forget and he couldn't do that with John there.

 

“Yeah, I do. Early shift.” John muttered as he turned away from Sherlock. 

 

He's gone in ten minutes. 

 

Sherlock waits until he's certain John is gone before starting a fire, building it up until the flames are roaring before he retrieves the bundle from the bathroom. 

 

He tosses them into the blaze like one would old letters and he stands back and watches them burn until there are nothing but ashes left. 

  
The ashes are cleaned out of the hearth and tossed into the bin. No one will be none the wiser. 


	7. Chapter 7

He's experimenting, but it's more for a distraction against idle hands and idle mind more than for any scientific reason. 

 

Sherlock lights his blow torch and sets out the various materials he's going to singe for no other reason then he needs to keep himself busy.

 

However, he can't seem to focus, at least not what's in his hand and what he's applying the heat to. Instead his mind is wandering. The smell coming from whatever he has in his hand smells vaguely like the room he woke up in the previous day. 

 

_ His hands are tied above his head, he's lying on his stomach and his head is pounding. He doesn't know where he is, but from the smell of the room and the look of the wall he can see, it's a warehouse of sorts. Empty. has been for sometime. Sherlock can move the lower half of his body so only his upper body is restrained. Its then he realized that he's on a bed. _

 

_ “S-stop..please.” Sherlock managed to find his voice but it came out nothing more than a whisper, and much to his horror John didn’t. _

 

_ “I’m sorry.” John replied as he made a particularly hard thrust, causing Sherlock to cry out, tears forming in his pale eyes from the pain, he couldn’t figure out how to get his body to move with him as a sob bubbled in his chest, nothing seemed to want to work like it should. tears poured down his face as John’s movements were harder, rapid and erratic as he grew close to his climax. _

  
  


_ "Please...stop- unhh--" _

 

_ Another hard thrust. Involuntarily, Sherlock raised his hips, giving into Moran's thrusts. _

 

_ "Stop--" his eyes were clenched tightly. Holding back tears save for one that rolled down his blushing cheeks. Moran knew then and he licked his lips. This was his chance to own Sherlock. This was his chance to tear him apart completely and own every fiber of his being, his body and mind _ .

 

The smell of something burning pulled him back to reality. He panicked, dropping the material in hand on the floor as flames began to inch towards his fingers.

 

"Fuck." he swore as he began to stomp out the fire as quickly as he could. The last thing he wanted was for the smoke to alert Mrs. Hudson that something was wrong. smoke billowed up slightly from under the sole of his shoe as the flames died under his weight. He turned off the blow torch and set it upon the metal tray on the table. 

 

Sherlock tore the safety goggles from his face in annoyance and tossed them on the table as he bet down to pick up the charred remains that laid on the floor. 

 

He sighed as he tossed it into the sink. Why couldn't he focus? Why did it have to creep into his mind when he was trying to forget it? This worked every other time so why wasn’t it working now? 

 

He had an idea as to why, however he had no desire to dwell upon in. Instead he turned on the faucet, allowing water to run over the still smouldering remains of his experiment before turning to clear off the table. After all he didn't want a repeat of this. 

 

Begrudgingly he cleared away the supplies he had set out on the table, focusing more on the movement and his actions than his thoughts. It provided to be safer, focusing his mind on opening drawers and putting things where they went instead of allowing his mind to run away from him. But he knew he couldn’t keep it up forever, eventually he would get bored. 

 

Once he had thrown away the charred remains in the sink, Sherlock settled down in his chair. Hands clasped under his chin. 

 

Time seemed to tick by slowly as he attempted to keep his mind empty, focusing only on the sounds he could hear from around him. The clock ticking, the sound of traffic on the street below, Mrs. Hudson hoovering her flat. 

 

He was startled by the sound of his mobile vibrating against the table next to his chair. It took him a moment before he realized before the sound was coming from. 

 

Sherlock reached for his phone, relief flooding him.

  
Alleyway murder. Might be interesting. GL


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains flashbacks

Sherlock was up and out of the flat in a heartbeat. A case. Finally something interesting and bound to keep his mind occupied and away from John and Moran at least he would have some peace of mind for a few hours, or if it was interesting, a few days. It was perfect. 

 

His hand shot up in the air, signalling a cab on the first try and slid into the back seat with pretended ease. Ignoring the pain he felt at his movement and after brushing off the concerned glance the cabby gave him in the rear view mirror as he faltered slightly he stated the address and they were off. 

 

Sherlock focused his attention on his mobile and the few photos Lestrade had sent him of the Location, though none of them were of the victim’s body. Perhaps that was best, it would give him something more to focus on when he arrived at the scene.

 

The cab pulled up to the yellow tape and Sherlock paid his fare before exiting. His heart was beating out of his chest as he ducked under the  police tape and made his way down the alleyway to where the group of officers were standing.

 

“I hope no one moved anything” Sherlock stated as his greeting as he came up behind Lestrade. He tried his best to pretend everything was fine. Everything was. 

 

“No. No one has, just waiting on you.” Greg replied as he motioned for the officers standing around to move aside as Sherlock stopped next to him. “Have at it” 

 

Greg waved his arm over the body and Sherlocked moved to examine the body 

 

Sherlock's stomach churned as he leaned over the body, a woman of average build with dark hair  who was in her early to mid 30’s, and he noticed the lacerations on her wrists similar to his own. 

 

_ His wrists are raw, they ache, however he keeps struggling he needs to get out from under Moran. To free himself. He doesn't want this. Not again. Not after John _

 

"Sherlock?" Lestrades voice breaks through his muddled mind "you alright, you look a bit pale."

 

"Fine. I'm fine." Sherlock managed to choke out as he looked up at the silver haired man who was standing a few feet away from him before turning back to the body. 

 

There were marks on her neck and just under her jaw.

 

_ "Your sadistic tendencies is your coping mechanism from childhood trauma when you witnessed your mother's assault by your own father-" Sherlock's words were cut short a large hand clamped itself over his mouth. The sniper leaned forward, his knees once again digging into Sherlock's body. _

 

_ "I don't give a shit about any of that. You think that will scare me away? You think your smart mouth can get you out of this?” Moran asked, a sharp yet surprised edge had met his voice as he squeezed his hand a little tighter around Sherlock's mouth, his nails digging into his skin slightly. The panic that had somewhat subsided in Sherlock's stomach flared up, his heart began to pound against his rib cage as a whimper escaped his lips. _ _   
_ __   
Sherlock backed away from the body as fast as he could, stumbling as he went. His chest was heaving and he found it hard to get air. He could hear someone calling his name, but he didn't look to see who it was. 

 

“She has defensive marks on her hands, Boss. She must have been a feisty one.” An officer, new, first crime scene, trying to impress Lestrade. 

 

_ His skin began to crawl as the tips of Moran's fingers grazed his chest as he dragged them over the silk material of Sherlock's shirt. He wiggled his body in an attempt to escape the touch, however his attempt was useless and only caused the rope to dig deeper into his skin. But he didn't want to stop fighting, he couldn't. _

_ "Keep it up, I like 'em feisty." Moran stated as he eased his way down Sherlock’s body before coming to rest on the top of the other man's thighs. The weight just as unpleasant as the wet fabric that his body was being pressed against _

 

Sherlock had to get out of there, He couldn't be there anymore. He scrambled to his feet and dashed off towards the street. Ignoring the shouts of his name coming from Lestrade. He ran as fast as he could, his feet pounding against, ignoring the pain as he went. 

 

He came to a stop once when his legs hurt and his chest burned from exertion. He doubled over trying to catch his breath. 

 

God why did it have to keep haunting him? Why couldn't he just push it from his mind and function like he was supposed to. 

 

Slowly he pushed himself upright and ran a hand over his face. He needed to go, but he couldn't go back to the crime scene. Not after he had just run away without any explanation and he didn't want to face the humiliation of having to explain why he had run. He had to go back to Baker Street. At least there he was alone, no one would ask questions. He didn't have to answer to anyone but himself. 

  
He took a deep breath and stepped towards the curb, throwing his hand up in the air to hail a cab. He didn’t notice the blonde sniper standing on the other side of the street with a smirk on his face. 


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock is on the sofa when John comes home. He is lying differently than he usually would, while his back is towards their chairs his head is resting on the arm of the couch that is closest to the window, allowing him a clear view of the door and the kitchen. It was a subtle change, one that John usually would have ignored, but he can't. He knows the only reason Sherlock is lying that way is  He can see the door properly. So he's not taken by surprise. 

 

_ It's my fault he's doing that.  _

 

_ But if he didn't run off it never would have happened _

 

“Greg called me this afternoon.” John stated announcing his presence. Sherlock's eyes flashing towards where he stood in The doorway. He said nothing. “He said you ran off from a crime scene this afternoon and that he called you about ten times afterwards.” 

 

Sherlock again said nothing. Instead he just readjusted his position and went back to staring at whatever had his attention before John arrived home. 

 

John sighed and ran a hand over his face before turning and making his way into the kitchen. There was no point in standing there. Sherlock wasn’t going to answer.

 

Sherlock knew that Lestrade had called him. He had stared at his mobile every time it rang, however he refused to answer. He didn’t want to explain himself and he still had too much pride to turn down the case. So of course his best option was just to avoid the officer himself. Though he cursed himself for not realizing that the DI would call John. He had no intention of telling John about what had transpired while he had been at work. He wanted John to think he was handling this well. That he was fine. 

 

If he didn’t, John would want to talk about it and that was the last thing he wanted. He wanted to forget it happened. He wanted to pretend it never happened. 

 

But He knows he can’t. 

 

He continues to ignore Lestrade. He never answered his messages, his voicemail was full of Messages from the older man that he refused to listen to. Sherlock Still refused to tell John why he suddenly stopped answering everything from Greg. 

 

“Are you ever going to call Greg?” John asked two weeks later from his place at the desk while Sherlock hid behind the paper while seated in his chair. 

 

“No.” Sherlock replied promptly, shuffling the paper. 

 

“Are you going to tell me why you aren’t talking to him?”

 

“No”

 

“Are you going to tell me anything?”

 

“I thought it was quite obvious I wasn’t going to tell anyone anything when I didn't reply the first ten times some tried to ask me.” Sherlock retorted, he attempted to sound bored. To sound like himself, but he knew he didn’t. 

 

Sherlock tries to keep himself occupied by taking other cases. The private ones that are overfollowing in his inbox. 

 

He manages to do a couple of the more interesting ones. The ones that make him leave the flat, that make him feel normal. 

 

It doesn’t last for Long. 

 

It’s after a case and he’s on his way back to Baker Street, He’s alone, he didn’t bother asking John to help him, it was easy enough on his own, and he sees him. 

 

He’s standing across the street, leaning against the wall of a cafe with a cigarette hanging from his lips. 

 

It doesn’t take more than a glance for Sherlock to realize that is it Moran and that he is watching him from behind his sunglasses. 

 

His chest aches and he finds it hard to breathe. He’s panicking. Sherlock forces his hand up in the air to signal a cab while keeping his eyes fixed on the blonde. He wants to make sure he doesnt move. He wants to make sure he can get away if he does. 

 

Sherlock wastes no time slipping into the back seat of the cab as it pulls up and he makes sure to lock both back doors as the cabbie drives off. He closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe. 

 

In his pocket he can feel his mobile vibrate. 

 

_ I’ll see you soon _


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock has no idea how Moran acquired his mobile number as he stares down at the device in his hand. There are more than twenty messages from the man left over the last three weeks. Beginning of course with the message he sent when Sherlock first spotted him

 

_ I'll see you soon.  _

 

_ You can't hide from me  _

 

_ I own you Holmes.  _

 

_ Stop taking cases? What a pity. _

 

Sherlock can't bring himself to delete the messages. He tells himself to save them and hand the phone over to Mycroft for recovery when he returns from his rather long business trip. 

 

Until then he will ignore the messages, ignore Moran, and focus on forgetting. 

 

But forgetting is getting harder. While the bruises have started to heal to yellow and green and the pain he feels inside of himself is practically gone, he doesn't go out anymore. He hasn't. Not since he realized Moran had been following him. 

 

Instead he resolves to solve cases from his laptop. There are the easy ones, ones he normally wouldn't bother with before, that he solves. Its simple and quick and he can get through a good portion in a day. Each one allowing him to shift his focus and it prevents his mind from wandering.

 

“Sherlock” John’s voice filters down the stairs as moments before John himself does, startling the younger man. Quickly he shoves his phone into the pocket of his dressing gown, looking up as John appears in the doorway. “I’m going out for drinks with Mike, I’ll be back later.”

 

Sherlock nods and John turns and makes his way down the stairs. He doesn’t move until the street door closes and he pushes himself off his chair and stalks to the window. He watches John summon a cab through the sheer curtains as to not be spotted. The two of them had been growing apart, and Sherlock knew it. 

 

Things hadn’t been the same since they had been plucked off the streets and he had been raped. They didn't want to admit of course, But Sherlock knew they had been growing apart. He didn't take cases anymore and  John had begun to go out more at least three times a week now. 

 

Sherlock simultaneously loved and hated the space at the same time. 

 

It meant he didn't have to talk about it, it could be forgotten, however he couldn’t go on pretending like nothing happened with the way John had withdrawn from him. It just made it easier to remember. 

 

The brunette sighed as he ran his hands over his face, the spot where John had been standing was now empty and had been for the last few minutes. However he doesn’t move. The flat is quiet and hateful and there is nothing to be solved. For once, His inbox is empty. He knows if he stays still, stays quiet, his thoughts will overtake him, consume him, and there will be nothing left but a mess for someone to pick up. 

 

Sherlock takes a deep breath and turns on his heel as he heads towards his bedroom. He needs to get out, to breathe, to find something to occupy his mind. He’ll go for a walk, there isn’t any harm in that. Just a quick stroll around the area and everything will be fine.

 

He changes quickly, leaving his clothes scattered on the bedroom floor, though he makes certain his mobile is in the pocket of his trousers before he heads out. 

 

The air against his face is cool and welcome and Sherlock takes a moment to appreciate the sensation as he makes his way down the street, tucking his hands into his pockets as he goes. The streets are bustling as people make their way home or to dinner as the sun begins to set and makes an effort to deduce a thing or two about the people he passes by. 

 

It provides a sense of normalcy. 

 

Sherlock becomes wrapped up in his deductions, so much so, he doesn’t realize that he has gone farther than he had intended and that the number of people have thinned out. It is something he comes to realize too late. 

 

He doesnt see the man behind him coming. He doesn't even notice anyone is there until a hand clamps over his mouth as he moves into the shadows of the street. 

 

Warm breath puffs over his neck. “I told you I’d see you see you soon.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains description of rape

Sherlock began to struggle against the arms holding him. Panic began to rise in his chest. But Moran just laughed in his ear as He began to drag Sherlock backwards. Why had he been so stupid? Why had he wandered so far away from people?

 

"Keep fighting, I told you, I like them feisty." Moran stated as he readjusted his arms, removing the one from Sherlock face while tightening the one around his middle as he reached to open to door behind them. 

 

The movement gave Sherlock the chance to take in his surroundings, one of the seedier parts of town, in fact one of his doss houses wasn't too far away from the abandoned building Moran was breaking into. 

 

"Haven't you done enough to me?" Sherlock spoke. His voice low and fragile as he spoke. 

 

"Oh darling, I was just getting started." The sniper chuckled. The feeling vibrated against Sherlock's back. 

 

Moran opened the door with a crack as the wood was wedged free and swung open just enough for Sebastian to pull him inside and closed the door. 

 

They were thrown into darkness and Sherlock forgot to breathe. He was panicking, so much so that he didn't notice that Moran had released him to tie a blindfold over his eyes. A detail he noticed as he felt the cloth tighten around his eyes. 

 

If Moran ever turned on the lights, Sherlock doesn't know. He is still in darkness and it at Moran's mercy as he is dragged further into the building. He attempts to fight back, but he can't see his target.   
  
Relief floods his body as he he manages to hit Moran on a swing and the arms around his waist let him go. He turns trying to see if he can hit Moran again, but his attempt is met with a blow to the face.  
  
Sherlock stumbles backwards before he falls onto the cold hard ground.   
  
There is a hand on his leg, dragging him across the ground. "Keep it up Holmes. It just makes me want to Fuck you harder." Morans voice is cold and sinister as he speaks and Sherlock forgets how to breathe   
  
"Please...just let me go."   
  
"I don't think so. Don't you remember? I. Own. You."  
  
He is lifted up ungracefully and practically slammed down on a cold hard surface. A table. Morans hand is pressing down against his chest making it hard to move and breathe.   
  
He can't see the man move, but he can hear him and he can feel the weight on his body as Moran lifts himself on the table to straddle his body.   
  
The hand on his chest is removed and Sherlock attempts to shove the man off of him. But it's futile and earns him a slap.   
  
He's stunned for a moment as the sniper grasps his wrists and pins them above his head in one hand while the other reaches for something.  
  
Rough rope twist around his wrists as he his arms are restrained.   
He feels sick.  
  
It's going to happen again.   
  
No one is going to help him. No one knows where he's at.  
  
Sherlock's body sags as hands begin to slide down his chest, tugging his shirt from his trousers. He refuses to move his body to make it easier for Moran to undress him.   
  
He can hear Moran growing impatient at the fact it's taking longer than it should and he quickly undies Sherlock's trousers to get at his shirt.   
  
Buttons are being undone from the bottom up and cold air is lapping at his skin as its flung open, revealing his pale chest to the man above him.   
  
"Just as gorgeous as before."  
  
There is a huskiness to his voice that makes Sherlock's stomach churn.   
  
He can only imagine the look on Moran’s face as He looks down at him like a wolf looks down at its prey.   
  
His skin crawls as warm hands touch his body, slowly dragging down his chest in a quest to get a reaction.   
  
Sherlock shivers at the sensation and Moran takes it as an invitation.   
Fingers dance across his body until they find their Mark and begin to play with his nipples.   
  
A gasp escapes Sherlock's lips as it feels like an electric surge runs down his back causing him to arch up into the teasing hands.   
  
"You're enjoying this aren't you?"  
  
"No" Sherlock croaks   
  
"You're body says different." there is amusement in Moran's voice as he scrapes his nails down Sherlock's chest and abdomen until they reach the waistband of his underwear.   
  
Fingers graze the fabric before a hand grasps the unwanted bulge growing.   
  
It's a physical response. Sherlock knows that but it doesn't stop him from feeling dirty.   
  
"Don't worry we will take care of that soon."  
  
Sherlock wants to vanish as the hand squeezing him through his trousers begins to stroke his half hard shaft until his erection is straining.   
  
He hates himself. He hates his body even more for responding to the stimulus.   
  
He makes a sound at the back of his throat as his trousers are unzipped. Moran begins to tug down his trousers, making sure to take his pants down with them.

  
Tears are freely flowing down Sherlock's face as he is exposed from the waist down. The table is cold against his skin and he shivers from the temperature change.    
  
He doesn't want to think about what is going to happen next, however his mind can't help but categorize the difference between now and before.   
  
"You're so beautiful you know." Moran states as he wraps a hand around Sherlock's cock and begins to stroke him from root to tip. His movements are slow. Deliberately so. Sherlock hates the way it makes his body feel. The way his hips begin to buck upward, the groan at the back of his throat.    
  
He can imagine the look on Morans face. The way the man is smiling as his body reacts. He wants it to stop.    
  
The weight over his body shifts and the hand on his weeping cock is removed before he is flipped over.    
  
Moran settles back on his legs and the pushes Sherlock's shirt up, revealing the vast plain of his back.    
  
Warm lips are pressed against his spine as Moran begins to leave a trail of kisses down the middle of his back.    
  
His muscles flex under the touch and he wants to vomit but the sensation makes his cock twitch with interest. He can't tell who he hates more. Himself or his rapist.    
  
Moran pulls away and Sherlock can tell he is fumbling for something.    
  
The click of a plastic cap catches his attention before a knee is used to spread his legs as wide as the clothes around his ankles will allow.    
  
There the feeling of something cool and slick against his puckered hole and it takes him a moment to realize that it's lube.   
  
A finger is gently pushing against the muscle until it finally sinks into his body. Sherlock hisses at the intrusion and Moran pauses for a moment before working his finger in deeper.    
  
Moran takes his time working him open until he can fit another finger inside.    
  
"I'm going to make you feel so good. You'll be begging for more." he states as his fingers brush against Sherlock's prostate and he moans into the table.    
  
There is a cool sensation as more lube is added to the fingers being worked in and out of his hole making enough room for a third one. Sherlock keens as Moran twists his fingers and they brush against his prostate once more.    
  
His belly is growing warm from the stimulation and he knows that if Moran keeps this up, he will come.   
  
The fingers move and spread, stretching him open until Moran is pleased.    
  
Sherlock is thankful when the fingers are removed from his body, however he knows what is coming next. Moran wouldn't work him open for nothing.    
  
There is the sound of jeans being unzipped followed by the sound of flesh against flesh as Moran pumps himself, slicking up his cock before he shifts his body.    
  
Sherlock can feel his body heat as he looms over his back while he lines the head of his length up against Sherlock's hole.    
  
Sherlock cries out softly as Moran begins to gently push himself into his body and Sherlock can feel the blindfold grow wetter with his tears   
  
"P-please...don't" he begs and Moran chuckles as keeps pushing himself into Sherlock's wet heat, only stopping ones he has bottomed out.    
  
The blonde waits a moment for his victim to grow accustomed to his size before he pulls out slightly before thrusting back in. The shallow thrusts are angled just so, pressing against his prostate with every movement   
  
And then Moran stops his movements. Sherlock feels incredibly full with Moran buried deep inside him and not moving. He wants this to be over. He wants to go home. But Moran refuses to move.    
  
Sherlock makes a strained sound at the back of his throat.    
  
"I'm not moving until you beg."    
  
"Please..."   
  
  
"Please what?"   
  
"Please...move."   
  
"Those aren't the words I am looking for." Moran states and Sherlock can feel humiliation warm his face.    
  
"P-please....Fuck me." his voice comes out broken as he speaks but Sherlock can only imagine the grin in Moran's face.   
  
Hands dig into his hips as Moran 're adjusts their bodies and Sherlock finds his face pressed into the metal as his hips are lifted into the air.    
  
It takes a moment before Moran pulls out almost completely before he plunges back into Sherlock's body, causing him to grunt in discomfort.    
  
The blonde behind him takes a moment to adjust his hips before he begins before he pulls out and pushes back in, hitting Sherlock's prostate. An unwilling moan escapes Sherlock's hips and Moran keeps the angle as he begins to Fuck Sherlock in earnest   
  
The sound of flesh hitting flesh echos in the empty building.    
  
Warmth and pain is building in the pit of Sherlock's stomach and he knows that he's getting close.    
  
It takes a few hard thrusts before Sherlock's cock spurts hot white come over the table and his chest.    
  
From behind him, Moran moans as Sherlock's muscles involuntary clench around him.   
  
The blondes thrust begin to grow erratic as he pounds into Sherlock's body and grunts of pleasure join the sound of flesh on flesh until Moran buried himself deep inside Sherlock's body as he comes.    
  
The blonde waits a moment before pulling himself from Sherlock's body and shuffles off the table. He tucks himself back into his pants and moves to untie Sherlock's hands.    
  
"You're always a great Fuck." Moran comments as he undoes the rope around Sherlock's wrists.    
  
"You can remove the blindfold when you hear the door shut." Moran orders." And I'll see you again, real soon."


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock doesn't move until he hears the wooden door open and shut with a crack. 

 

He began to move slowly, mindful of the pain in his arms as he brought them down to remove the blindfold from his face. 

 

The material was soft and damp under his fingers, undoubtedly because he had been crying. 

 

He pulled it up over his head and tossed it to the floor and the change of light blinded him for a moment. 

 

Sherlock blinked as he attempted to clear his vision and only moved his head once he could see. 

 

The building was indeed empty except for the table he was lying on. Perhaps it was one of Moriarty's buildings and Moran had taken use of it because Sherlock had wandered so far from where he began. 

 

Slowly he began to push himself up, throwing his legs over the side as he did so.

Sherlock paused for a moment once he was sitting upright. The metal of the table was cool under his warm skin and made him shiver before he slowly pushed himself off the edge and stood. 

 

His legs felt off, but he didn't allow that to stop him as he pulled up his trousers. He wanted to get out of there. He needed to. With fumbling fingers he slipped each button into the slit in his silk shirt, he didn't even bother to tuck the garment back into his trousers. Instead he made his way to the door slowly. His body ached from behind slammed against the hard surface he had been laid upon and he could feel the ache with every movement. 

 

Sherlock pulled at the door and began to panic when it didn't open on the first try. He thought that perhaps Moran had locked him in until the door came free from it's jamb and he could escape.

The street was just as empty as it had been when he had been pulled into the building. There would have been no one to see him Being dragged into the building and no one would have been none the wiser if he had never stepped back out. 

 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself as he began to walk the way he had come, though this time he was more mindful of his surroundings as he made his way back to baker street. 

 

God. If he hadn't been so wrapped up in his thoughts this never would have happened. If he had been more aware Moran never would have been able to grab him and hurt him again. 

 

Did Moran really hurt him? Yes he had been restrained but it was nothing like the first time Moran had taken him. He had been kinder, gentle. The sniper had even taken the time to prepare him. 

 

And the way his body had responded...the way he had grown hard just from gentle touches. 

 

Sherlocks stomach twisted. He hated it. He hated him. He hated himself. 

 

He felt like vomiting, but he pushed on. He didn't want to linger and risk a chance of Moran catching him again. He wasn't certain if He could handle twice in a night. He wasn’t even certain if Moran would let him go this time.  

 

The glow of the street lights welcomed him as he made his way back towards Baker Street. These streets were better lit and there were some people still walking around. It made him feel safer but only marginally. Moran could still get him if he wanted. He had already proven that. 

 

It took all of his self control not to break out into a run as he turned onto Baker Street and raise suspicion. No one could know it could happen again. No one, Not even John if he could avoid it. 

He fumbled in his pockets only to find his phone and fished for the key hidden above the street door and quickly unlocked it. He stumbled inside, tripping over this urgency to get inside and close and lock the door behind him. 

 

Sherlock’s shoulders sagged as he leaned against the wooden door and took a deep breath. It took a moment before he pushed himself away from the surface and made his way upstairs. 

 

The flat was cold and dark, signalling that John wasn’t home and that was something Sherlock was thankful for. He needed a shower, he needed to get clean and he didn’t need John asking questions.

 

He made his way towards the bathroom and locked the door behind him once he was inside. He turned his back to the mirror as he stripped out of his clothes before making his way to the shower and turned the water on as hot as he could stand it. The spray of the water burned his skin and tinged it pink as he stepped into it. He closed his eyes as the water cascaded down his body. 

 

Sherlock grabbed the flannel that had been left in the shower and lathered it up with a decent amount of soap before he began to scrub at his body as hard as he could. 

 

He wanted to be clean. He wanted to feel clean. But No amount of scrubbing seemed to removed the feeling that he was dirty. Tainted. Instead it just made his skin red, angry, and raw. He stayed under the spray of the shower for as long as he could, he stayed until the water had turned cold. 

 

Sherlock turned off the water and stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his body. In quick movements he picked up his clothes and carried them into his bedroom before tossing them in his wardrobe. He would drop them off to be cleaned later. He couldn’t afford to burn these. Not to mention it would raise suspicion. 

 

He was quite while rummaging for clothes to wear and pulled on the clothes he found quickly. 

  
It was only after the bedroom door had been locked and he had double checked that the lock on the window was latched before sitting on his bed with his back to the headboard.


	13. Chapter 13

He's quiet, reserved and exhausted as he emerges from his room the next morning. Sherlock couldn't sleep. He was afraid to. So he didn't. He wants to shower again. But it's early and John is home.

Instead he makes his way into the sitting room and curls himself up on his chair. His eyes focused on both doors that lead into the flat.

He tells himself he's sitting that way because it's comfortable and makes him feel secure. But he knows it's because he can see both entrances to the flat. He can see Moran coming if he dares to come here. He can run if he has a chance.

He wishes Mycroft was there, but he doesn't dare call him. He's been away for weeks now on business. Attempting to fix the mess some country has gotten itself into. He doesn't want to be a bother. Instead he will sit and pretend everything is fine. He has to.

Its his fault this happened. He had gone out for a walk. If He had been more visual He would have seen Moran. If he had been stronger he could have fought. This was no ones fault but his own

Sherlock shifts in his seat, getting himself more comfortable as he hears John beginning to move upstairs, getting ready for the day.

The ceiling above him creeks with every step and he could track John's movements as walks around, undoubtedly gathering his clothes to get dressed.

Sherlock watches the door intently as John begins to descend the stairs. His gait tells Sherlock he is slightly hungover from his night out and the way John pauses at the door for a moment before he walks straight across the landing into the Kitchen. He moves as quietly as he can as he puts on the kettle and retrieves a mug or two of tea.

Sherlock watches him out of the corner of his eye as he pretends to be indifferent to his flatmates actions

The kettle whistles and He can hear John pouring water over the tea bag.

Sherlock remains quiet but diverts his eyes from the kitchen to the wall behind the couch. He attempts to keep his body free of tension but it's difficult.

He jumps slightly as John clears his throat and he turns his head to find the doctor standing besides him, a hand extended offering him a cup of steaming tea. It takes him by surprise. After the last few weeks of near silence this is thr last things he expects.

The ceramic is warm in his hands and it spreads up his arms and through his shoulders as nods his  
thanks.

Sherlock shifts his body slightly so he can see John a bit easier, but he still says nothing. Instead He sips at the tea in his hands while John plants himself in the chair across from him and gets settled.

Its obvious by his body language John wants to say something and Sherlock waits.

John takes his time as he takes a sip from his mug before placing it on an empty space on the end table located next to his chair. The doctor clasps his hands together as he clears his throat and leans forward. Its no an open posture but it grabs Sherlock's attention as he takes another drink.

"I know things haven't been the same since...since a we were taken, but I think we need to fix that." he breathes

"Sherlock, I want you to know that I care for you and I'm here for you."

The words come easily out of John's mouth and it takes a moment for them to sink into Sherlocks head. It seemed too good to be true. John was reaching out, telling him he was there for him. Sherlock could only nod at Johns words. They seemed so surreal.

But he will take them. He will take John on his word


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes what people say are just empty promises

The silence between Sherlock and John vanishes slightly and they manage to have a few interactions a day, but it's nothing compared to how it used to be and Sherlock can't bring himself to tell John about his second encounter with Moran.    
  
He's afraid of what he would say, afraid of the fact John would only confirm what his mind is already telling him. That it was his fault and He should have known better than to go out.    
  
Instead he shoves it into the back of his mind and pretends as if nothing happened.    
  
When a bruise blossoms from where Moran hit him in the face he lies. He tells John that he was half asleep and stumbled and hit himself as he fell. John of course buy it and if he doesn't He doesn't question Sherlock's statement.   
  
Soon they fall into a shadow of their old routine of take away and crap telly, but Sherlock notices John doesn't stay up past ten with him and there is a large space left between them on the sofa.    
  
But Sherlock accepts this small token of their old life. It is a sense of normalcy   even if it is a bit strained. It provides a sense of comfort that Sherlock needs, especially after Moran's last threat or rather promise.   
  
Sherlock continues to solve the cases in his inbox that don't require him to leave the flat and John does not question why he no longer wishes to take cases in person. He doesn't even bring up Sherlock's rape.    
  
Soon, Sherlock starts going to bed at the same time John does, even if he lays and looks up at the ceiling because he can't sleep. Its better than sitting up alone and in the open. It feels safer and he knows John is just above him if he needs anything.   
  
However it's not long before Sherlock begins to realize that John is going to bed earlier and their conversations are diminishing.    
  
Its not long until John begins to go out more and more frequently, leaving Sherlock alone and vulnerable. He Hates it.    
  
"John can we talk?"   
"Now's not a good time."   
  
"You're going out?"   
"I haven't been out in ages."   
"You were gone on Tuesday."   
"You sure? I think it was longer than that."    
  
"I ordered take out if you're hungry." 

  
"Today was a long day and I'm tired. I think I'll turn in."   
  
"John..." Sherlock says softly one morning as the doctor comes down stairs for his morning tea.    
  
"Hmm?"    
  
"You've been spending a lot of time gone lately... I was wondering if you could stay home tonight?" Sherlocks voice is soft and vulnerable as he poses the question. And it takes John a moment to form his answer.    
  
"I would love to, but they are having something at the clinic and they need me." John answers as he passes Sherlock to prepare his morning tea.    
  
There is a crushed feeling in his chest and Sherlock curls his hands into fists before releasing them as John turns around to look at him.    
  
"I'm sorry Sherlock, perhaps tomorrow"   
  
Sherlock only manages to nod and John sips at his tea.   
  
_ I care for you _ _   
_ _   
_ __ I'm always here for you   
  
Sherlock can't help but feel hurt at the fact that John has begun to put distance between them after stating he was going to be there for him. But He doesn't say a word, he doesn't want to cause an issue between them. He doesn't want to drive John any further away from him.    
  
Perhaps what John said was a lie, a cover up to the fact that he thinks Sherlock is disgusting and tainted just like Sherlock himself does but he is too kind to tell him so. 

 

Sherlock’s shoulders sagged as he sat at the table and stirred his tea. He should have known it was too good to be true. 

  
Why would John want to be around someone that was used, tainted, broken?


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moran keeps his promise of another visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains graphic descriptions of violence and rape. 
> 
>  
> 
> *This is the last chapter to contain rape. From here on out, it will focus on Sherlock's recovery.

Sherlock finds himself before the window he used to compose in front of. His eyes are down cast on the street as he watches John slip into the cab, leaving him alone for another evening.

It had been weeks since he and John had actually spent an evening in together and Sherlock hates that. He missed John, missed his company, missed the comfort his presence brought.

It had been nearly two months since he had last seen or heard from Moran and while that filled him with relief, he knew that the man would be calling soon to collect on his promise.

He closes his eyes and shifts his weight as he moves to lean against the pane of the window. The glass is cool against his skin and offers him nothing but a reminder of the coldness in the flat now that he's alone

He sighs as he pushes himself away from the window as he opens his eyes and turns toward the sofa before making his towards the couch.

The brunette ungraciouly flops down on the faux leather and turns to face the cushions as he curls up on his side.

The sound of the stairs creaking startles Sherlock awake from the sleep he didn't even remember falling into.

It takes a moment for his sleep muddled mind to process the fact that the person ascending the stairs is not John. The gait is off and the way the stairs creak tells Sherlock that it is someone taller and heavier than his flat mate.

His heart begins to pound painfully as he pushes himself up into a sitting position just in time to see Moran ascending the stairs.

The sniper sees him and a sinister grin spreads across his lips.   
Sherlock feels sick.

He bolts towards the his bedroom, if he can get a head start he can get out the window and down the fire escape. He won't be hurt there. He refuses to be harmed in his own home. He's supposed to be safe there.

He doesn't make it to the bedroom door. He can hear Moran Sprint after him and he can feel floorboards vibrate as he dashes after him.

He is nearly to his bedroom when a hand snatches him by the back of his shirt, yanking him backwards before turning him and smashing him into the wall near the bathroom door.

Morans chest his heaving, he can feel it pressed against his back as he pins him to the wall.

"Did you think you could escape Holmes?" his voice is dark with anger as he speaks and Sherlocks heart beats faster in his chest. "I own you don't you remember?" moran's breathe is warm against his neck as he leans in to lick the she'll of Sherlocks ear. The feelings makes his stomach roll.

Sherlock knows he has to fight back, he has to at least get away, to prevent Moran from violating him in his own safe space.

Its a split second decision. He brings his elbow back as hard as he can and hits Moran in the chest. It takes the bigger man by surprise and He takes a step back,making the space between them large enough for Sherlock to slip through and dash to the sitting room.

An angry roar comes from behind him before he topples to the ground as Moran tackles him.

Sherlock yelps as his face smacks the ground near the kitchen table. His lips, nose, and forehead are throbbing and he can taste blood.

"Get off of me."

"Not in your dreams"

Moran lifts himself up just enough to flip Sherlock on his back but before he can settle himself back onto the younger man Sherlock brings his knee up sharply between Morans legs earning him a cry of pain.

The brunnete scrambles away on his hands and knees into the sitting room. He pauses in between the two chairs and pauses to peer into the kitchen to see if Moran is still there.

He can't tell if he is and Sherlock turns back around to attempt to get to his feet only to find himself starring at Jean clad knees.

His eyes travel upwards taking in Morand looming form, his curled fists and the anger etched on his face.

A twisted smile forms on Moran's lips before his leg comes forward, hitting Sherlock in the stomach, knocking the air from his lungs.

"Did you think you could get away from me?!" Moran snarled as Sherlock collapsed onto his side. He weezes out a breathe as Moran begins to kick him viciously in the stomach, legs, and ribs. Pain explodes through Sherlocks body with every blow.

"I'll show you what happens to people who run from me. I'll make sure you won't ever run from anything again."

Sherlock attempted to curl in on himself to lessen the damage done by the blows, but he found it difficult. His body ached and he was certain that Moran was going to kick something in.

When the blows stopped, Sherlock unfurled himself and looked at Moran and his heaving chest. It wad against better judgment that Sherlock moved to crawl away, placing one hand on the carpet and began to pull himself away.

Moran's large foot came down on Sherlocks hand harshly causing the younger man to scream in pain as he felt something in his hand crack.

"What did I tell you?" Moran hissed as he lifted his foot before it connected to Sherlocks face.

Pain exploded where the boot came to contact with his cheek and Sherlock was physically tossed to the side by the blow

The world spun as he landed on his side he refused to move. He couldn't and it was then he figured he was going to die. Everything hurt and he figured that something had to have been broken or cracked or torn by the vicious kicks to his stomach chest, legs, and sides. He had no choice but to watch Moran out of the eye that had not begun to swell as He walked around him and grabbed him by his feet.

Moran pulled him but his feet towards the middle of the sitting room and made an effort to turn him on his stomach as he did so.

Sherlock groaned in pain at the movement and closed his eyes as his legs were dropped onto the ground with a dreadful thud.

Hands are roughly tugging down the his underwear and pajama pants, throwing them aside once they are off.

The carpet is rough under his skin as Moran grasps his hips and pulls them up slightly before one of his knees are between Sherlocks legs, spreading them.

The brunettes fingers dig into the carpet as he hears the sound of a zipper being undone. Behind him he can hear moran muttering.

His voice is angry and hateful as He speaks.

"To think I was going to go easy on you...prepare you, make it enjoyable, for you...too bad you ruined that by trying to escape."

The fingers on his hips dig into his flesh as Moran lines up the blunt head of his cock with Sherlocks unprepared hole. The younger man tries to prepare himself for The intrusion but no amount of relaxation could have prepared him for the pain that ripped through his body as Moran began to push into his body.

A scream ripped through his throat as Moran continued to shove himself into Sherlock body. It felt as if he was being ripped in half, and Sherlock was certain he felt something tear before Moran was fully sheathed inside of him.

He wanted to die as Moran began to move and pain radiated up his spine with each thrust. A pained groan escaped his lips with each movement from the man above him and it wasn't long until one of Moran's hands had come to grasp the back of his head and pressed it into the carpet.

He wanted Sherlock quiet, no matter if it ended up killing him.

Tears slid down Sherlocks face and dampened the fibers under his head.

He wanted this to be over, he wanted this to be done with. He wanted to stop existing.

Sherlock breathes in the dust from the carpet as Moran's thrusts become harder and more erratic as he climbs closer to his climax.

A cry escapes Sherlock as Moran gives one final thrust into Sherlocks body, coming inside him.

A whimper escapes Sherlock as Moran pulls out of him and he can do nothing but lay there as the sniper rights himself.

"I guess I'll see you around if you are alive in the morning." Moran chuckled as he tossed Sherlock's keys on the coffee table.

 

* * *

 

  
It was late as John came home. He tried to be as silent as he could as he came up the stairs. But something seemed off as he made it to the landing. The door to the flat was ajar and after being kidnapped by Moriarty, Sherlock had always ensured it was closed before he turned in for the night.

John's brow knitted together as he made his way towards the door and pushed it open. He froze at the sight.

Sherlock, beaten, bloody and half naked in their sitting room.

He fished for this moblie, pulling it out of his pocket and dialed 999

"I need an ambulance to 221 B Baker Street please."


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock felt like he was dreaming as he heard voices and He was gently turned over. He could make out faces but there was no way anyone could be there. He had been left alone and he didn't think John would have been back already.

He closed his eyes against the swimming vision above him. He didn't want to see it if it was a dream, he didn't want to be disappointed.

* * *

 

  
Mycroft Sat in his hard hotel chair as he looked over the paperwork he needed to finish. He had been gone for months trying to fix some countries poor political system and he wanted nothing more than to go home. But there was still work to be done.

The elder Holmes sighed as he leaned back against the hard wood of the chair and ran his hands over his face.

The silence in the room was broken by the sound of his mobile going off, startling him. He reached across the surface of the desk and retrieved the device. Frowning slightly when he saw John's name on his screen.

"Hello Doctor Watson." Mycroft greeted " To what do I owe this pleasure?"

There was a pause on the other end before John spoke.

"Sherlock's in the Hospital."

Mycroft's world freezes.

"I'll be there in a few hours" he tells John and hangs up.

The government official packs up his belongings and calls the People he has been working with. He tells them he needs to leave. Family emergency.

He doesn't tell them his little brother is more important than their political issues.

At least he can help Sherlock. After months trying to put their system back together its obvious the country is a lost cause anyway

He is on a plane back to London half an hour after John's phone call.

 

Mycroft calls Anthea on his way back to London, asking for a car to pick him up at the airport. She doesn't ask questions instead just says one will be waiting for him on the tarmac before telling him what Hospital Sherlock has been taken to. He takes a moment to smile as he hangs up. Of course she would have known why he was coming back, she would have known he was leaving when he checked out. He'll have to get her a nice gift to show her his appreciation at some point. 

 

The plane has barely had a chance to come to a stop when Mycroft is already standing with his luggage and when the door opened he was down the stairs and into the car in record time. 

 

John is sitting in the waiting room as Mycroft walks in. He is hunched over, phone in his hands, as he looks down at the floor and the government official figures he is waiting for a nurse or doctor or whoever is designated the task to tell him information on Sherlock. 

"Doctor Watson." Mycroft greets him as he comes to a stop in front of him, startling the other man and gaining his attention. 

"Mycroft. I-I wasn't expecting you until the morning"

"Somethings are more important than putting some useless political system into order." 

John nods solemnly as Mycroft takes a seat next to him. His umbrella is clutched between his hands as per usual, but his suit is far from meticulous. It is wrinkled from his day of work and the plane ride and he didn't even bother putting his tie back on after he took it off in the hotel room. But none of that matters now. What matters is Sherlock and why he is in the hospital.  

"Have they said anything?" Mycroft asks after a few moments of silence. 

"They took him to surgery after I called you but they haven't said anything more." 

"What happened?" Mycroft asks and John tenses and the action makes Mycroft uneasy. 

"I-I don't know. I found him when I got home. He was just lying there in the middle of the room." John answers, his voice quiet. Mycroft flexes his hands around the handle of his umbrella and he frowns. He doesn't like John's answer. He turns his head slightly to fully take in John's appearance. 

 _Worn clothes, the smell of alcohol on his breath, tired look on his face and the tense posture. Out then. drinking with a friend. most likely Stamford. Its Monday....well Tuesday. Lestrade doesn't go out on weekdays._  

"Perhaps you would know if you didn't go out. even more so, we might not be sitting here."

John's hand flexes around his phone "How is this my fault?! I have a life outside of just him, since when is it my full time job to be his babysitter?"

Mycroft's knuckles go white as he grasps the handle of his umbrella.   
  
"How is it your fault?" Mycroft asks his voice is cold as he speaks. "I trusted you to watch him! To look after him, To care for him when I couldn't and you couldn't even do that like you couldn't keep a Job at that surgery you got when the two of you first met. He in the  Hospital  _John_." Mycroft spits his name as if it is something vile in his mouth "Do you know what it means if he is in the hospital? It means he is injured. Seriously, because He wouldn't come here if he had to make the choice himself!"

Mycroft's angry voice echoes in the empty waiting room and he is standing in front of John, leaning in close enough that the doctor has to lean back to avoid being nose to nose. Mycroft's chest is heaving and it takes everything he has not to slap the man in front of him with all of his might. 

"Sherlock is the one thing in this world I care about more than my job and here you are, treating him like something that is just tying you down. If you hate it that much, why don't you just leave then? Oh thats right BECAUSE YOU ALREADY HAVE AND THATS WHY WE ARE HERE!"

John doesnt say anything and that is just as well for Mycroft. He doesn't want to have to talk to him anymore at that moment and he moves to the other side of the waiting room to wait by himself. 

 

The sun has just begun to rise when a nurse comes from behind the black double doors near the nurses station in the waiting room. Mycroft is up in a heart beat when he notices that she is approaching them.

"Are you here for Mr. Holmes?" She asks once she has comes to a stop in in the middle of the room, dividing the space between John and Mycroft, which is best. 

"Yes"

"He has just been moved out of recovery to his room, I can take one of you, if you wish to see him." 

 

Mycroft didn't wait for John to make a move and stepped forward, John doesn't have a right to see him anyway. 

"Right this way then, Sir" 

The government official followed the nurse behind the double doors and down a long hallway to where he suspected lead to the patient's rooms. Their footsteps echoed on the tile of the floor as they walked and Mycroft's heart began to pound as they paused in front of a door. The hand written nameplate underneath the room number reading. Holmes, S. 

"Here you are" 

Mycroft nodded his thanks before he walked past her and into the room. His heart stopped as his eyes landed on Sherlock in the bed. 

Sherlock looks nearly unrecognizable to his brother, his face is black and blue with bruises and one of his eyes is swollen shut. His right hand has been encased in a plaster cast, but what is broken, he has no idea. There is visible bruising on his arms and he can only imagine what the rest of him looks like under his gown and the blanket that covers his body. 

He sinks down into the chair near his brothers bed carefully. He can't wrap his mind around the fact that the man that is lying before him is his brother and if it wasn't for the nameplate on the door and the distinct yet currently messy black curls he would think this was some sort of sick joke. 

Mycroft leans forward and places his hand on Sherlock's bruised on. Silently vowing he will get whoever did this to his brother. He will make them pay. 


	17. Chapter 17

 

Mycroft has spent the last few hours by Sherlock's bed, reading over his brother's chart. The file is crinkled around the edges, the marks are left from Mycroft's fingers as he clenched his fists in anger as he read over the notes left by the doctor.

  
_Evidence of Sexual assault_

  
_Signs of previous assault_

  
Mycroft tried to wrap his mind around the fact that not only had someone raped his little brother, but apparently they had done it numerous times.

  
It didn't seem to make sense, if Sherlock had been assaulted before this, why had no one contacted him?

Did John know about the previous attacks on his brother? Or was he oblivious to what was happening to Sherlock?

Mycroft closed his eyes as he shut the chart and placed it back on the clipboard on the edge of Sherlock's bed.

He had questions that needed to be answered.

* * *

 

Beeping met his ears first as his senses were overwhelmed with the scent of anti-septic as he woke. His mind was muddled and Sherlock couldn't think straight. Was he dead? He didn't feel anything. Everything was dark but there was a beeping sound, not one that constantly went off but it went off every few seconds. He couldn't wrap his mind around what it was or why he was hearing it.

No, he couldn't be dead Sherlock decided as something warm grasped his hand, another hand. The light burned his eyes as he opened them, causing Sherlock to groan out in discomfort as he shut them with again. Something shuffled to his right as someone stood, and the sound of the lights switching off met his ears. Whomever it was returned and the warmth that had been grasping his hand returned.

The brunette blinked a few times to clear his vision. It took a few moments for him to realize where He was. The hospital. The sound he heard was the heart monitor that was connected to his chest and the hand that was holding his was...Mycroft.

What was Mycroft doing there? He had been away for months for work. He had to be dead. There was No way it could be his brother.

"M-myc?" Sherlock said softly, his voice coming out hoarse.

Mycroft gave him a tight lipped smile as he squeezed his hand once more before releasing it before me leaned toward   the table besides his bed, his eyes watched as his brother poured a small measure of water into the cup provided.

The water was more of a gel, most likely mixed with something to thicken it up so he wouldn’t choke on it, it was unpleasant both in taste and texture however at the same time it was welcome to ease the dryness in his mouth and throat. 

Sherlock took a moment to survey the room. It was plain and white, done in standard hospital style: white walls, pale tiled floor, Venetian blinds to keep out the light, there was no privacy curtain meaning it was a private room, most likely requested by his brother.  But it still didn't tell him why Mycroft was there or how he was where he was. 

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, his voice less hoarse as before as he settled his attention back on his brother. 

"John called me." Mycroft began after he cleared his throat. He leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees as he placed his clasped hands on the bed. " He said you had been taken to the hospital. I came as soon as I could."

John had called him? That must have meant John had come home early then....at least earlier than Moran had intended. He wasn't dead. That means John knew what had happened as well. Well he knew that he had been beaten within an inch of his life at least. 

"Why didn't you call me sooner Sherlock?" Mycroft asked 

"Why would I do that?" He wanted to play this off as some sort of accident, but he knew better. He knew by the way Mycroft was looking at him, he knew. 

"Sherlock, I read your medical file" Mycroft stated, his voice had taken on a soft edge as he spoke the next part. "It says there are previous signs of assault. Why didn't you call me if someone was hurting you?"

"I don't want to talk about it"

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft"

"Sherlock, Why didn't you call me?"

"Can we not do this now Mycroft?" Sherlock asked as his hands clutched at the blankets covering his body. "Just...please don't make me talk about it right now. Please" Sherlock's voice sounded hallow as he spoke and Mycroft could see the tears in his brother's eyes. 

Mycroft Just nodded in response. He wouldn't make Sherlock talk about it now, but they would have to talk about it soon. He wanted to know who hurt his brother and he was going to find them. 

Even if he had to do it himself


	18. Chapter 18

Mycroft had more or less turned the hard chair and the rollable table in Sherlock's hospital room into a make shift office from which he works. He doesn't want to leave Sherlock, not now not after he had been gone for so long and so much has happened to his brother.

 

Sherlock doesn't comment on the fact he remains there, in fact he doesn't say much of anything in between the small periods of wakefulness he has. He doesn't even look at Mycroft, perhaps he thinks that if he ignores it, it will just go away. However Mycroft knows its only a matter of time before everything catches up to Sherlock.

 

But until then Mycroft knows its the medication and the anesthesia running their course provides Sherlock with the dreamless sort of sleep he needs to begin healing, and Sherlocks recovery is all that matters to him.Next to catching his abuser.

 

Mycroft takes the opportunity while Sherlock is asleep to help scan surveillance footage. He wants to get through it quickly yet efficiently in order to find out who had done this to his brother and give the man what he deserved.

 

The marks on Sherlocks face had darkened further since the government official had first seen them. Sherlock didn't move as much as he usually would and Mycroft contributed it to the internal stitches.

 

The thought of his brother being ripped open in such a way made Mycroft's stomach roll and his blood boil with anger. It just fuels his attempt to make progress before Sherlock can stay awake for a longer period of time.

 

Mycroft is nearly at his wits end after he finishes the last of the film he decided to take. He sits back against the chair and runs his hands over his face in frustration before a strike of genius hits him and he sits up quickly and fished his phone from his pocket. He takes no time to quickly type out a text to someone who would know better than he would at this moment.

 

Gregory Lestrade is seated at his desk, his gaze is down cast at the photos he has borrowed from another division. The pictures are familiar and of a place he has seen and been numerous times. Though Sherlock's flat looks different here.

 

There is a large stain in the middle of the room and the next photo shows the dark pool of blood that outlines the V shape left by Sherlock's legs

 

He flips over the photo to look at the next one -Sherlock's pajama bottoms crumpled on the floor near the coffee table- when his phone rings. It's a text message and he flips it open to find it is from Mycroft.

 

_When was the last time you saw Sherlock? -MH_

 

He stares at the message for a moment before he replies

 

_About 4 months. He ran off from a crime scene. GL  
Why? GL_

Greg sat back and closed the file and waited for the next reply.

_I think it is best if we talk in person. MH_


	19. Chapter 19

Greg never liked hospitals for obvious reasons: the way they smelled, the death, illness, and tragedy. There was enough of that on the job without him having to go visit it. Though over the years there where exceptions. When he had no choice but to push that dislike behind him and walk through the automatic doors.

 

Today was one of those exceptions. Mycroft wanted to see him. He wanted to talk about Sherlock and to Greg that was important. He loved the brunette like a kid and he wanted nothing more than to be of some help to find the bastard who had hurt him in such a vicious way.

 

The officer had followed the instructions Mycroft had send him on his way over and took the lift to the third floor. He spotted the other man almost immediately.

 

Mycroft was standing outside of a hospital room, back against the wall, head tilted slightly so the crown of it touched the white wall which he stood in front of. He was missing his suit jacket and his always present  umbrella, but Greg assumed those items where in Sherlock's room.

 

"Mycroft." Greg greeted as he approached, attracting the other man's attention

 

"Ah, Gregory. That took less time than I anticipated."

 

"I figured it was important, that it couldn't wait." the inspector stated as he stopped within inches of Mycroft. Up close the man looked exhausted and Greg wondered when the last time he had slept was. "How is he?"

 

It was a stupid question. He knew Sherlock wasn't alright. He had the proof in his coat.

 

It took Mycroft a moment to answer.

 

"He's- well, He's alive and given his injures I say it is better than expected." there was a grim note tl Mycroft's voice as he spoke. "Whomever did this didn't want or expect him to survive."

 

Greg could only nod at his words.

 

"But I didn't call you to give you an update on Sherlock." Mycroft's tone had changed, he had slipped back into his usual demeanor. "I need to know about the last time you saw Sherlock, I want to know if there was anything different about him. I need to know about any contact you may have had with him over the last few months."

 

"You think This isn't the first time this happened then?" 

 

"It's not. I fear he was being abused without anyone being any wiser." 

 

Greg swallowed. His throat was dry and He felt sick. How many time had Sherlock endured this then? Had it already begun when he had seen him on the last case he had showed up to?

 

Greg rubbed the back of his neck as he thought. He could feel Mycroft's eyes drilling holes into him as he waited for his answer. 

 

"The last time I saw Sherlock was at a crime scene.... I had called him to come to look at a body in the alley and he took one look at it before he bolted." there was a dawning realization that came across Greg's face as his stomach turned. "I- Oh God...he must have been....something about the body must have reminded him..."

 

Mycroft's face was unreadable as silence fell between them. 

 

"I should be going, I have paperwork to finish." Greg said sheepishly as he dug into his jacket. "I shouldn't have this, let alone give this to you, but I think you'll do a better job at finding the bastard who did this." 

 

Greg held out the file for Mycroft to take. 

 

"Its his case file." 

 

Mycroft's eyes widened minutely before taking the file from Greg's outstretched hand. 

 

"Thank you, Gregory." 

 

"If you need anything, call me."

 

Mycroft stood there for a moment as he watched the detective inspector walk towards the elevator. The government official stared down at the file in his hands before giving a final glance to the elevator before turning to enter his brother's room. 

 

Sherlock was sleep when Mycroft entered, something the older Holmes considered to be a blessing as he took the chair that had become his over the last few days . 

 

He placed the file upon the table and slowly opened it. 

 

Despite the gruesome things he had seen working for MI6 he wasn't prepared for photos taken at his brother's flat. 

 

He bypassed the photos of blood and discarded clothing to examine the other photo graphs that had been taken of the apartment, looking for something, anything that would tell him who had been there. 

 

Mycroft had no idea how long he had been staring at the less invidious photos when he phone rang. 

 

"Mycroft Holmes." 

 

"Sir."  It was Anthea "we found something that may interest you." 

 

"What is it?"

 

"Miranda found footage of Sherlock leaving his flat and returning some time later, obviously limping." His assistant explained, Mycroft's heart jumped. "And after looking at the last of the footage from Baker Street, I discovered a man entering Sherlock's flat the night he was attacked. He is there for a good forty five minutes sir. I'm sending you the footage now." 


	20. Chapter 20

Mycroft wasted no time examining the footage that Anthea had found. It was the lead he had been looking for. He had determined the man leaving his brother's flat was indeed the man who had attacked him, given he was the last person to enter and exit after John had left and before he had returned.

Mycroft zoomed in the footage as much as he could in order to get a close up of the man's face and it took some time before he got a decent shot of the man's face.

The government official stared at the smug look on the man's face, memorizing it, burning the image into his brain with the knowledge that the vile creature leaving his brother's flat had assaulted Sherlock just moments before.

Usually he would send the photo back to Anthea with orders to have one of his men search a database of photographs for a match,but this time He wanted to it himself. He at least owed that to Sherlock.

Mycroft focused at the task at hand, taking care to upload the shot to the database before clicking where he wanted it ran againt.

Mycroft knew that searching for this on his own would be seen as an abuse of his power. But none of that mattered as he clicked on the search button. He wanted the man in the footage, he wanted the man dead, and he wanted to kill the man himself.

* * *

_The carpet was musty against his face as it was shoved against the rough fibers. Sherlock tried to breathe, but he couldn't. The pressure at the back of his head prevented him from getting enough air and for a moment He didn't feel a thing before pain exploded throughout his body as someone shoved themselves into his unprepared body. He tried to scream, only to find himself being pressed harder into the carpet as the unknown man from above trusted into him._

_"This is what you deserve." the voice belonged to John." for going out and getting yourself caught in the first place."_

_He tried to get away, he tried to escape but He couldn't._

 

Sherlock's eyes flew open as he felt something touch his arm and he swung out against it. 

"Sherlock. Sherlock. You're alright." Mycroft's voice was urgent even in the soothing tone it had taken on. "You're safe, Sherlock. Safe." 

Safe. 

The heart monitor behind him began to slow down as he looked around and take in the white walls of the hospital room, the monitors he was hooked up to and of course, Mycroft standing next to his bed

Mycroft must have been who had touched him, who he had lashed out at. 

"Myc..I'm sorry." Sherlock's voice was hoarse from disuse. 

"You don't have anything to apologize for." his brother remarked as he sat on the side of his bed. Mycroft reached out, hesitantly, to touch the side of His brother face. "You were having a nightmare, lashing out because of it isn't something you need to apologize for."

Sherlock nodded, his body tending st the touch before he relaxed into it. It was gentle and it was welcome. 

"Will you stay?"

"As long as you want me to"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like the way this chapter ended, but I thought some comfort from Mycroft was needed


	21. Chapter 21

Images are flashing across the laptop screen at a speed of at least one per second as Mycrofts laptop search through the databases for a positive match for the still image on half the screen.

There is nothing more than the government official to do other than to sit back and watch over Sherlock. The anaesthesia has started to wear off along with the other medication he was given, meaning he was starting to spend more time awake and less time asleep. Though his hours spent awake are spent silent and unmoving, as if he is afraid both will cause him pain.

Mycroft spends his time talking quietly to Sherlock, about times when they where little. When Sherlock would run around in stripped sweaters and rain boots while wearing a pirate hat, when they would sit on the beach with their parents and Sherlock would come out of nowhere and tackle him for a hug.

Other times, like now, Mycroft sits with his chair next to Sherlock's bed and a book in hand reading to him. He picks Sherlock's favorite books to read and he watches as a smile creeps onto his brothers bruised face as He listens intently.

Today Sherlock seems better, he's turned himself towards Mycroft and fiddles with the hem of the blanket as he listens to his brother Read Treasure Island.

"You don't have to do this you know." Sherlock mumbles as Mycroft finishes the chapter he was reading. The older Holmes gives his brother a perplexed look as he Marks the page he's on before closing the book.

"What are you talking about?"

"You don't have to do this...to look after me....to go after....him."  
Mycroft is surprised at Sherlock's answer and sudden breach of the subject

"What do you mean I don't have to, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looks down at his hand as he picks at a thread on the blanket. There is a look on his face that tells Mycroft this is something he has been thinking about, most likely why he's been quiet.

"I deserved this." Sherlock croaks. There are tears in his eyes and he refuses to look at Mycroft. "I deserved what happened to me..."

There is a surge of anger and sadness in Mycroft's body. Slowly he moves from his chair to sit on the edge of Sherlock's bed. He moves slowly, giving Sherlock a chance to pull away as he slips his fingers under Sherlock's chin to make him look at him.

Sherlock looks so young at the moment. The hard lines of his face have vanished, replaced with sadness and vulnerability.

"Sherlock, no one deserves this, especially not you."

"Y-yes I do Myc. Its my fault...I went out and I got caught." his voice cracks and tears start to well in his eyes. "I-I was r-raped because --"

"Because of some sick person, not because of anything you did or didn't do." Mycroft cuts him off.

Sherlock just shakes his head but doesn't argue.

Mycroft sits on his brothers bed until Sherlock has calmed down and drifted off to sleep.

He sighs as he moves to stand and contemplates going to get a cup of coffee when the Laptop pings.

There's a match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I haven't updated in awhile. I just had to think of how to get where this story is going. 
> 
> Also, there are some interesting points coming Up!
> 
> Mycroft finds out who hurt Sherlock, we find out what happens to Moran, and Of course John's role.


	22. Chapter 22

Mycroft's heart pounded in his chest as he moved to look at the laptop screen.

Staring back at him was a photo, most likely taken a few years before, but the man staring at the camera looked exactly like the one he captured coming out of Sherlock's flat and his blood ran cold.

He eased himself into the hard plastic chair as he clicked on the photograph to bring up the man's information.

Colonel Sebastian Moran  
Sniper- Top Marksman  
British Army  
Dishonorably Discharged

Mycroft settled himself to get a bit more comfortable as he opened another program and searched for Moran. He hoped, prayed even, that he could find the man this way, through the usual searching, so he could send a car to 'pick him up'.

But after an hour of searching, it was a dead end. All information came back the same.

All of his mail went to a postal box, there where no checks, credit cards, or debit cards in his name and if there where, they hadn't been used since just after He was discharged.

The bank account he had had been closed after his last check from the army had been cashed and the place he was staying had been vacated the same week. There was no forwarding address.

Mycroft groaned in frustrstion as he picked up his mobile. He should have known it wouldn't have been this easy. It never was.   
"Yes Sir?" Anthea answered after three rings.

"I am sending you some information. I found the name of the man who left Sherlock's that night, but that is about all I found." Mycroft began.   
"I need you to have a few of our trusted people track him through the video that was recovered. Find out where he went after he left."

"I have a few people already on it,Mr. Holmes." Anthea stated "There has just been some difficulty following him, some of the cameras were down that night and his movements are difficult to track."

Mycroft nodded as he rubbed his forehead. Of course there would be something.

"Thank you Anthea."

He sighed as he ended the call and leaned back in the chair. His eyes roaming over Sherlock as he slept. He didn't want to ask his younger brother about the man, not yet anyway. He didn't want to pressure him into talking about something he wasn't ready to. However, Sherlock and what he knew was the only lead Mycroft knew they had.


	23. Chapter 23

The hospital room is silent as Mycroft leans into the chair and closes his eyes. He’s been staring on and off at his mobile since he called Anthea hours before, hoping to find a message or an incoming call, only to find nothing. He knew he was being impatient but this had gone on too long and Sherlock had suffered too much without him knowing and he was determined to do something about it now.

”You’re not going to find him.” Mycroft is startles as Sherlock’s voice breaks the silence. He looks toward the bed to find his brother staring at him and it makes him wonder how long Sherlock has been awake or if he was actually asleep at all.

Mycroft shifts himself forward and rests his hands atop the table.

“Why do you say that?”

Sherlock seems uncomfortable by his question and he looks away for a moment as if he’s deciding to tell Mycroft something, anything, about the man who has hurt him.

“You can’t.”

”Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s good hand clutches at the blanket and Mycroft slowly pushes himself to stand as he notices the action.

“Why can’t I find him Sherlock?”

“Because.”

”That isn’t an answer Sherlock.” Mycroft knows he is pushing his brother now, he can see it on his face. And for a moment he expects a total shut down from his younger brother. 

“Because arresting him isn’t going to solve anything!” Sherlock finally snaps, there are tears of frustration in his eyes and he looks away from Mycroft. “Because he works for Moriarty do you think it’ll make a difference? Because it won’t. If he can order two people to have their way with me what make you think he won’t have a third.”

Mycroft stands there for a moment stunned as tears roll down his brothers face before his shoulders begin to shake. The government official slowly makes his way to the side of Sherlock’s bed before easing himself down on the bed next to him. He wants to pull Sherlock into his arms, but instead he chooses to open his arms and let Sherlock make the choice. 

Sherlock find himself leaning into the warmth of Mycroft’s body as he buries his face in the crook of the others neck. 

“I-I’m afraid Myc. I’m afraid of what they’ll do to me.” 

“They’re not going to do anything to you, not if I can help it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your kind comments on this story. I am sorry it took so long to update and I hope to begin to update regularly. 
> 
> If you ever wish to talk to me about this story or others, feel free to stop by my tumblr, You can find me at savedbyholmes.tumblr.com


	24. Chapter 24

  
  
  
It did not go unnoticed by Mycroft that Sherlock had said two people had violated him, however given Sherlock’s reaction to Moran, he decided to save the subject for another day. Instead he focused on calming Sherlock down as he held him to his chest.

“I promise no one else is going to hurt you.” Mycroft found himself repeating to his brother until he felt the tension leave Sherlock’s body  
  
“I just want to be safe Myc.” Sherlock replied as he broke away from the embrace and settled back into his hospital bed. Sherlock’s words made Mycroft’s chest ache. Ever since their parents had brought Sherlock home from the hospital, Mycroft wanted nothing more than keeping his baby brother safe and he had failed.   
  
“You will be, Sherlock, I promise.”  
  
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Mycroft waited until Sherlock had laid back against the pillows and closed his eyes before he retrieved his mobile and sent a message to Anthea

 _Find me James Moriarty. MH_  


* * *

 

John found himself standing in front of the hospital double doors. He was weary of entering after his last encounter there with Mycroft. At first, he thought it would be best just to stay away, but he couldn’t. He was supposed to be Sherlock’s friend, though after all that he had some, he certainly didn’t feel like it anymore and obviously the least he could do was stop by to see him.   
  
The hospital lobby was busy as visitors, patients, and medical staff made their way to their various destinations around John as he stood by the door for a moment. The flow of people moved around him easily as he made his way to the reception desk.  
  
“Good morning Sir, how may I help you this morning?” One of the nurses behind the counter greeted.   
  
“I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
The nurse nodded as she typed in Sherlock’s name before scrolling.   
  
“Mr. Holmes is in Room 457 on the fourth floor.”

The doctor gave his thanks as he made his way towards the lift.   
  
Uncertainty filled him as the metal doors slid open as he stepped on, pressing the button for the fourth floor.   
He could feel his heart beating against his ribs as the floor lights lit up as he passed.   
  
1  
  
2  
  
3  
  
4  
  
The doors slid open and he stepped out onto the floor. It was easy enough to find Sherlock’s room, but he found his uncertainty give way to anxiety as he peered into the room and noticed Mycroft sitting by Sherlock’s bed.   
  
John was about to turn when Mycroft looked up from whatever he had been looking at and the look on his face turned from the usual expressionless mask to one of distain before he stood.

* * *

  
He was in the process of slipping his phone back into his pocket when something at the door caught his eye. He looked up to find John Watson standing just beyond the door and he stopped. A flash of anger ran through him and he pushed himself to stand.   
  
“I’ll be right back, brother mine.” Mycroft announced to Sherlock, even though the younger man was asleep.   
  
John stood rooted to the spot as Mycroft came towards him, pulling the door closed as he entered the hallway.   
  
“You are the last person I expected to see Dr. Watson, especially after our last encounter...when you blamed my brother for his current state,” Mycroft’s voice was cold as he spoke, and it took John a moment to find his voice to reply. “I have half a mind to have you thrown out.”  
  
John faltered for a moment.

“I just wanted to see how he was doing.” The doctor began. “I know I shouldn’t have said what I did when he was brought in. I blamed him, and it wasn’t his fault, none of this was his fault and I treated him like it was.”

The distain was still obvious in Mycroft’s face as he looked John over. The army doctor looked sincere and the more Mycroft looked him over the more he saw guilt, a deep-seated guilt, that weighted the doctor down and told Mycroft that John knew more than he original suspected.

“There is something you’ve left out isn’t there, Doctor Watson? I didn’t see it before, but I see it now. The guilt weighing you down and the comment you made the last time we met. You know something and yet you don’t want anyone to know about it, Why?”

“Can’t I just see him Mycroft?”

“Not until you tell me what you’re hiding.”

“I can’t”

“That is hardly an appropriate answer.”

“Just let me see him, please,”

“No.”

“Please—”

“Not until you tell me—”

“You want to know?” John finally snapped, the anxious feeling in his body had been building and he couldn’t take it anymore, especially now, not that Mycroft knew he felt guilty. “You want to know what I am hiding Mycroft? Two people hurt him Mycroft, and one of them was me.”

 


	25. Chapter 25

“You?! I trusted you to look after him.” Mycroft hissed as he took a step closer to John, who took a step back.  
  
“Let me explain, please.” He begged as the taller man continued to come closer until he was backed against the wall. “Please it’s not what you think.”   
  
A sneer appeared on Mycroft’s lips as he crowded John’s space. “It’s not what I think? You have no idea what I think Doctor.”   
  
A look that flashed across Mycroft’s face that Reminded John of the parting look Moriarty gave him before he sent him into the room to rape his best friend.  
  
“And you have no idea what really happened to Sherlock, but I do. At least- “he breathed “I know who else hurt him and where you can find him.”   
  
Mycroft backed off slightly, his eyes sweeping over John looking for any signs of deception, but there where none. He still had half a mind to send John away before ordering his execution, however he knew that wouldn’t be fair to Sherlock especially if John truly knew where to find Moran.   
  
“I’ll give you five minutes and that all the time I’ll give you to explain yourself.”   
  
John nodded once, half tempted to thank the other man, but he wasn’t sure it was the best idea, seeing that if Mycroft wasn’t satisfied with the information he received he would order John’s death.

John took a deep breath as he searched for words before he began. “We thought it was a case, at least we thought it was, and it had piqued Sherlock’s interest, so we went. But we were ambushed when we arrived. It had been set up by Moriarty, for what reason I don’t know. But we couldn’t leave until we met his….terms”

“His terms?” Mycroft looked skeptical “What where his terms exactly?”

“Can we talk about this somewhere else?”

Mycroft looked over John’s shoulder to the empty hospital room and waved his hand as an offer to go inside. As much as he didn’t want to leave their current position in the hallway, he didn’t want anyone overhearing this conversation.

John slipped into the room, thankful not to have this conversation out in the open where others could hear what he was about to tell Mycroft. He didn’t want anyone other than the man standing before him to know what he had done.

 “He wouldn’t let us go…unless…unless I raped him.” His admission was no higher than a whisper and he refused to meet Mycroft’s eyes, instead he chose to focus on the wall just above the government officials shoulder. “Moriarty made it clear that it was in exchange for my life and that even if I didn’t he would have one of his men rape him instead. I didn’t want to hurt him Mycroft, I never wanted to hurt him…I thought it would have been a kinder experience and it would have saved him from those other men.”

“But it didn’t happen that way did It Doctor Watson?”

“No, It wasn’t. Moriarty sent Moran in me to have his way with Sherlock. He didn’t let us go until Moran had his chance to violate him.”

Anger was surging back through Mycroft’s veins as John went quiet, it was obviously not the detailed version of events, but it was enough to get a clear picture and it matched up with Sherlock’s admission that he had been forcefully taken by two different people on James Moriarty’s orders.

“Do you know where I can find them?”

“I think its around here.” John stated as he pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. “Its where they sent us for that ‘case’”

Mycroft took the offered piece of paper before turning to head back to Sherlock’s room.

“Is it still possible to see him?” John questioned

“Do you honestly think that would be a good idea John?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am glad that I have continued this story, but I don't like the way its turned out compared to earlier chapters and what I originally had in mind.


End file.
